Time Can Make Soft That Iron Wood.

This Have I Known Always: Love Is No More Than The Wide Blossom Which The Wind Assails, Than The Great Tide That Treads The Shifting Shore, Strewing Fresh Wreckage Gathered In The Gales; Pity Me That The Heart Is Slow To Learn, That The Swift Mind Beholds At Every Turn.

Under My Head Till Morning; But The Rain, Is Full Of Ghosts Tonight, That Tap And Sigh, Upon The Glass And Listen For Reply.

How Strange A Thing Is Death, Bringing To His Knees, Bringing To His Antlers The Buck In The Snow . . . Life, Looking Out Attentive From The Eyes Of The Doe.

The Soul Can Split The Sky In Two And Let The Face Of God Shine Through.

I Know, But I Do Not Approve. And I Am Not Resigned.