They Address An Eclipse Every Morning, Whom

If Aims Impel These Astral Ones The Ones Allowed To Know Know That Which Makes Them As Forgot As Dawn Forgets Them Now

Till It Has Loved, No Man Or Woman Can Become Itself.

The Things That Never Can Come Back, Are Several- Childhood-some Forms Of Hope-the Dead- Though Joys-like Men-may Sometimes Make A Journey- And Still Abide-.

If I Feel Physically As If The Top Of My Head Were Taken Off, I Know That Is Poetry.

That Short, Potential Stir That Each Can Make But Once, That Bustle So Illustrious Tis Almost Consequence, Is The Eclat Of Death.