So Instead Of Getting To Heaven, At

The Poet Lights The Light And Fades Away. But The Light Goes On And On.

Sunrise: Day's Great Progenitor.

There's A Certain Slant Of Light, Winter Afternoons— That Oppresses, Like The Heft Of Cathedral Tunes— Heavenly Hurt, It Gives Us— We Can Find No Scar, But Internal Difference, Where The Meanings, Are.... When It Comes, The Landscape Listens— Shadows—hold Their Breath— When It Goes, 'tis Like The Distance On The Look Of Death.

To Shut Your Eyes Is To Travel.

Assent - And You Are Sane - Demur - And You're Straightaway Dangerous - And Handled With A Chain.