Pardon My Sanity In A World Insane

The Vastest Earthly Day Is Shrunken Small By One Defaulting Face Behind A Pall.

I Had A Terror-since September -i Could Tell To None-and So I Sing, As The Boy Does By The Burying Ground-because I Am Afraid.

March Is The Month Of Expectation, The Things We Do Not Know, The Persons Of Prognostication Are Coming Now. We Try To Sham Becoming Firmness, But Pompous Joy Betrays Us, As His First Betrothal Betrays A Boy.

... I Have No Letter From The Dead, Yet Daily Love Them More.

Eden Is That Old-fashioned House We Dwell In Every Day Without Suspecting Our Abode Until We Drive Away.