Those Who Lift Their Hats Shall See

Pain - Has An Element Of Blank It Cannot Recollect When It Begun - Or If There Were A Time When It Was Not - It Has No Future - But Itself - Its Infinite Contain Its Past - Enlightened To Perceive New Periods - Of Pain.

Those Who Have Not Found The Heaven Below, Will Fail Of It Above.

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers That Perches In The Soul - And Sings The Tunes Without The Words - And Never Stops At All.

Two Seasons, It Is Said, Exist- The Summer Of The Just, And This Of Ours, Diversified With Prospect, And With Frost- May Not Our Second With Its First So Infinite Compare That We But Recollect The One The Other To Prefer?

If I Shouldn't Be Alive When The Robins Come, Give The One In Red Cravat, A Memorial Crumb.