Drunkards Of Summer Are Quite As Frequent

I Am Out With Lanterns, Looking For Myself.

After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes — The Nerves Sit Ceremonious, Like Tombs — The Stiff Heart Questions Was It He, That Bore, And Yesterday, Or Centuries Before? The Feet, Mechanical, Go Round — Of Ground, Or Air, Or Ought — A Wooden Way Regardless Grown, A Quartz Contentment, Like A Stone — This Is The Hour Of Lead — Remembered, If Outlived, As Freezing Persons, Recollect The Snow — First — Chill — Then Stupor — Then The Letting Go —

Truth - Is As Old As God-.

Beauty Is Not Caused, It Is; Chase It And It Ceases, Chase It Not And It Abides.

I Tasted - Careless - Then - I Did Not Know The Wine Came Once A World - Did You? Oh, Had You Told Me So - This Thirst Would Blister - Easier - Now