The Soul Selects Her Own Society.

We Trust In Plumed Procession For Such The Angels Go Rank After Rank, With Even Feet/and Uniforms Of Snow.

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

I Wonder If It Hurts To Live, And If They Have To Try, And Whether, Could They Choose Between, They Would Not Rather Die.

Remorse Is Memory Awake.

Elysium Is As Far As To The Very Nearest Room, If In That Room A Friend Await Felicity Of Doom.