Dying Is A Wild Night And A

When We Think Of His Lone Effort To Live And Its Bleak Reward, The Mind Turns To The Myth "for His Mercy Endureth Forever," With Confiding Revulsion.

After A Hundred Years Nobody Knows The Place, Agony, That Enacted There, Motionless As Peace.

I Think Of Love, And You, And My Heart Grows Full And Warm, And My Breath Stands Still... I Can Feel A Sunshine Stealing Into My Soul And Making It All Summer, And Every Thorn, A Rose.

Love Is Done When Loves Begun, Sages Say, But Have Sages Known?

Forever Is Composed Of Nows— 'tis Not A Different Time— Except For Infiniteness— And Latitude Of Home