I Have Need To Busy My Heart

Incredibly, Inordinately, Devastatingly, Immortally, Calamitously, Hearteningly, Adorably Beautiful.

But Only Agony, And That Has Ending; And The Worst Friend And Enemy Is But Death.

They Say That The Dead Die Not, But Remain Near To The Rich Heirs Of Their Grief And Mirth. I Think They Ride The Calm Mid-heaven, As These, In Wise Majestic Melancholy Train, And Watch The Moon, And The Still-raging Seas, And Men, Coming And Going On The Earth.

I Thought When Love For You Died, I Should Die. It's Dead. Alone, Most Strangely, I Live On.

All The Little Emptiness Of Love!