I'll Tell You How The Sun Rose.

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

The Career Of Flowers Differs From Ours Only Inaudibleness.

My Life Closed Twice Before Its Close

You Are Out Of The Way Of Temptation And Out Of The Way Of The Tempter - I Didn't Mean To Make You Wicked - But I Was - And Am - And Shall Be - And I Was With You So Much That I Couldn't Help Contaminate.

As Summer Into Autumn Slips And Yet We Sooner Say "the Summer" Than "the Autumn," Lest We Turn The Sun Away, And Almost Count It An Affront The Presence To Concede Of One However Lovely, Not The One That We Have Loved - So We Evade The Charge Of Years On One Attempting Shy The Circumvention Of The Shaft Of Life's Declivity.