I Must Go In, The Fog Is

I Hope Your Rambles Have Been Sweet, And Your Reveries Spacious

The Soul Should Always Stand Ajar.

I Have An Appetite For Silence.

The Revery Alone Will Do If Bees Are Few.

My Faith Is Larger Than The Hills— So When The Hills Decay— My Faith Must Take The Purple Wheel To Show The Sun The Way— 'tis First He Steps Upon The Vane— And Then — Upon The Hill— And Then Abroad The World He Go To Do His Golden Will— And If His Yellow Feet Should Miss— The Bird Would Not Arise— The Flowers Would Slumber On Their Stems— No Bells Have Paradise— How Dare I, Therefore, Stint A Faith On Which So Vast Depends— Lest Firmament Should Fail For Me— The Rivet In The Bands