In The End Is My Beginning.

The Communication Of The Dead Is Tongued With Fire Beyond The Language Of The Living.

The Yellow Fog That Rubs Its Back Upon The Window-panes The Yellow Smoke That Rubs Its Muzzle On The Window-panes Licked Its Tongue Into The Corners Of The Evening Lingered Upon The Pools That Stand In Drains Let Fall Upon Its Back The Soot That Falls From Chimneys Slipped By The Terrace, Made A Sudden Leap And Seeing That It Was A Soft October Night Curled Once About The House, And Fell Asleep

And Right Action Is Freedom From Past And Future Also.

Life Is Long Between The Desire And The Spasm.

The Church Must Be Forever Building, For It Is Forever Decaying Within And Attacked From Without.