Nobody Was Ever Meant, To Remember Or

In Spring More Mortal Singers Than Belong To Any One Place Cover Us With Song. Thrush, Bluebird, Blackbird, Sparrow, And Robin Throng.

They Cannot Scare Me With Their Empty Spaces Between Stars—on Stars Where No Human Race Is. I Have It In Me So Much Nearer Home To Scare Myself With My Own Desert Places.

Our Very Life Depends On Everything's Recurring Till We Answer From Within.

Ah, When To The Heart Of Man Was It Ever Less Than A Treason To Go With The Drift Of Things, To Yield With A Grace To Reason, And Bow And Accept The End Of A Love Or A Season?

I'm Not A Teacher, But An Awakener.