Look Thy Last On All Things Lovely,

What Is The World, O Soldiers? It Is I, I, This Incessant Snow, This Northern Sky.

What Lovely Things Thy Hand Hath Made.

So, Blind To Someone I Must Be.

God Has Mercifully Ordered That The Human Brain Works Slowly; First The Blow, Hours Afterwards The Bruise.

For Beauty With Sorrow Is A Burden Hard To Be Borne: The Evening Light On The Foam, And The Swans, There; That Music, Remote, Forlorn.