Those Who Have Not Found The Heaven

A Dim Capacity For Wings Demeans The Dress I Wear.

Victory Comes Late-- And Is Held Low To Freezing Lips-- Too Rapt With Frost To Take It

A Courteous, Yet Harrowing Grace, As Guest, That Would Be Gone

After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes — The Nerves Sit Ceremonious, Like Tombs — The Stiff Heart Questions Was It He, That Bore, And Yesterday, Or Centuries Before? The Feet, Mechanical, Go Round — Of Ground, Or Air, Or Ought — A Wooden Way Regardless Grown, A Quartz Contentment, Like A Stone — This Is The Hour Of Lead — Remembered, If Outlived, As Freezing Persons, Recollect The Snow — First — Chill — Then Stupor — Then The Letting Go —

I Dwell In Possibilities .