Dying Is A Wild Night And A

The Spreading Wide My Narrow Hands / To Gather Paradise-.

A Wounded Deer Leaps Highest, I've Heard The Hunter Tell; 'tis But The Ecstasy Of Death, And Then The Brake Is Still. The Smitten Rock That Gushes, The Trampled Steel That Springs,, A Cheek Is Always Redder Just Where The Hectic Stings Mirth Is Mail Of Anguish, In Which Its Cautious Arm Lest Anybody Spy The Blood And, You're Hurt Exclaim.

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

Our Journey Had Advanced; Our Feet Were Almost Come To That Odd Fork In Being's Road, Eternity By Term.

The Truth Dazzles Gradually, Or Else The World Would Be Blind.