I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. Annabel shines like a star in the darkness, Rosamund queens it a rose, deep rose; But the lady I love is like sunshine in April weather, She gleams and gladdens, she warms—and goes. “It was the night you left Paris. I believed that our marriage was genuine. I wish to prevent a repetition of any such errand as I presume you have come here upon this evening. She was ushered into the back of the squad car. But I mustn't think of these things, or I shall grow mad.
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