Thou, Silent Form, Dost Tease Us Out

All Writing Is A Form Of Prayer.

Through The Dancing Poppies Stole A Breeze, Most Softly Lulling To My Soul.

Nothing Ever Becomes Real Till It Is Experienced.

The Grandeur Of The Dooms We Have Imagined For The Mighty Dead.

I See A Lily On Thy Brow, With Anguish Moist And Fever Dew; And On Thy Cheek A Fading Rose Fast Withereth Too.