Till I Loved I Never Lived.

Enough Is So Vast A Sweetness I Suppose It Never Occurs.

I'll Tell You How The Sun Rose, A Ribbon At A Time. The Steeples Swam In Amethyst, The News Like Squirrels Ran. The Hills Untied Their Bonnets, The Bobolinks Begun. Then I Said Softly To Myself, "that Must Have Been The Sun!

Prosperity Whose Sources Are Interior. As Soon Adversity A Diamond Overtake.

Mirth Is The Mail Of Anguish --

Of Consciousness, Her Awful Mate. The Soul Cannot Be Rid - As Easy The Secreting Her Behind The Eyes Of God.