Forever Is Made Up Of Nows.

Longing, It May Be, Is The Gift No Other Gift Supplies.

The Things Of Which We Want The Proof Are Those We Know The Best.

We Trust In Plumed Procession For Such The Angels Go Rank After Rank, With Even Feet/and Uniforms Of Snow.

Pardon My Sanity In A World Insane

Memory Is A Strange Bell—jubilee, And Knell.