A Wounded Deer Leaps The Highest.

We Turn Not Older With Years But Newer Every Day.

After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes. The Nerves Sit Ceremonious, Like Tombs.

Longing, It May Be, Is The Gift No Other Gift Supplies.

How Softly Summer Shuts, Without The Creaking Of A Door.

There Is No Frigate Like A Book To Take Us Lands Away Nor Any Coursers Like A Page Of Prancing Poetry.