Finite To Fail, But Infinite To Venture.

That It Will Never Come Again Is What Makes Life Sweet.

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 —

God's Unique Capacity Is Too Surprising To Surprise.

Mirth Is The Mail Of Anguish --

Narcotics Cannot Still The Tooth. That Nibbles At The Soul