Dying Is A Wild Night And A

Enough Is So Vast A Sweetness I Suppose It Never Occurs.

That Love Is All There Is, Is All We Know Of Love.

Anger As Soon As Fed Is Dead- 'tis Starving Makes It Fat.

To Fight Aloud, Is Very Brave— But Gallanter, I Know Who Charge Within The Bosom The Cavalry Of Wo— Who Win, And Nations Do Not See— Who Fall — And None Observe — Whose Dying Eyes, No Country Regards With Patriot Love— We Trust, In Plumed Procession For Such, The Angels Go— Rank After Rank, With Even Feet— And Uniforms Of Snow.

If I Read A Book And It Makes My Whole Body So Cold No Fire Can Ever Warm Me, I Know That Is Poetry.