These Are The Days When Birds Come

The Will Is Always Near, Dear, Though The Feet Vary.

Not Knowing When The Dawn Will Come I Open Every Door.

There's A Certain Slant Of Light, On Winter Afternoons, That Oppresses, Like The Weight Of Cathedral Tunes.

Angels In The Early Morning May Be Seen The Dews Among. Stooping, Plucking, Smiling, Flying. Do The Buds To Them Belong?

Life Is The Finest Secret. So Long As That Remains, We Must All Whisper.