My Sun Sets To Rise Again.

All Poetry Is Putting The Infinite Within The Finite.

Autumn Wins You Best By This Its Mute Appeal To Sympathy For Its Decay.

That We Devote Ourselves To God, Is Seen In Living Just As Though No God There Were.

Heart, Fear Nothing, For, Heart, Thou Shalt Find Her- Next Time, Herself!-not The Trouble Behind Her

Kiss Me As If You Made Believe You Were Not Sure This Eve, How My Face, Your Flower, Had Pursed It's Petals Up.