I Dwell In Possibilities .

Death Is A Supple Suitor, That Wins At Last. It Is A Stealthy Wooing; Conducted First By Pallid Innuendos And Dim Approach, But Brave At Last With Bugles.

There's A Certain Slant Of Light, Winter Afternoons— That Oppresses, Like The Heft Of Cathedral Tunes— Heavenly Hurt, It Gives Us— We Can Find No Scar, But Internal Difference, Where The Meanings, Are.... When It Comes, The Landscape Listens— Shadows—hold Their Breath— When It Goes, 'tis Like The Distance On The Look Of Death.

To Live Is So Startling It Leaves Little Time For Anything Else.

A Deed Knocks First At Thought And Then - It Knocks At Will - That Is The Manufacturing Spot.

Phosphorescence. Now There's A Word To Lift Your Hat To... To Find That Phosphorescence, That Light Within, That's The Genius Behind Poetry.