All But Blind In His Chambered Hole

A Face Peered. All The Grey Night In Chaos Of Vacancy Shone; Nought But Vast Sorrow Was There The Sweet Cheat Gone.

God Has Mercifully Ordered That The Human Brain Works Slowly; First The Blow, Hours Afterwards The Bruise.

For Beauty With Sorrow Is A Burden Hard To Be Borne: The Evening Light On The Foam, And The Swans, There; That Music, Remote, Forlorn.

So, Blind To Someone I Must Be.

He Got Out Of Bed And Peeped Through The Blinds. To The East And Opposite To Him Gardens And An Apple-orchard Lay, And There In Strange Liquid Tranquility Hung The Morning Star, And Rose, Rilling Into The Dusk Of Night The First Grey Of Dawn. The Street Beneath Its Autumn Leaves Was Vacant, Charmed, Deserted.