How Much Can Come And Much Can

Longing Is Like A Seed That Wrestles In The Ground

That Short, Potential Stir That Each Can Make But Once, That Bustle So Illustrious Tis Almost Consequence, Is The Eclat Of Death.

There's A Certain Slant Of Light, On Winter Afternoons, That Oppresses, Like The Weight Of Cathedral Tunes.

The Crime, From Us, Is Hidden, [though] He Is Presumed To Know.

I Do Not Know The Man So Bold He Dare In Lonely Place That Awful Stranger Consciousness Deliberately Face-.