I've Given Offense By Saying I'd As

Love At The Lips Was Touch As Sweet As I Could Bear; And Once That Seemed Too Much; I Lived On Air.

A Poem May Be Worked Over Once It Is In Being, But May Not Be Worried Into Being.

We're Either Nothing Or A God's Regret.

They Would Not Find Me Changed From Him They Knew - Only More Sure Of All I Thought Was True.

Our Life Runs Down In Sending Up The Clock. The Brook Runs Down In Sending Up Our Life. The Sun Runs Down In Sending Up The Brook. And There Is Something Sending Up The Sun. It Is This Backward Motion Toward The Source, Against The Stream, That Most We See Ourselves In, The Tribute Of The Current To The Source. It Is From This In Nature We Are From. It Is Most Us.