Finite To Fail, But Infinite To Venture.

The Poet Lights The Light And Fades Away. But The Light Goes On And On.

These Are The Days When Birds Come Back, A Very Few, A Bird Or Two, To Take A Backward Look.

How Strange That Nature Does Not Knock, And Yet Does Not Intrude!

We Do Not Play On Graves— Because There Isn't Room— Besides—it Isn't Even—it Slants And People Come— And Put A Flower On It— And Hang Their Faces So— We're Fearing That Their Hearts Will Drop— And Crush Our Pretty Play— And So We Move As Far As Enemies—away— Just Looking Round To See How Far It Is—occasionally—

Expectation Is Contentment - Gain Satiety.