Time Is Short And Full, Like An

Suspense-is Hostiler Than Death-death- Tho Soever Broad, Is Just Death, And Cannot Increase- Suspense-does Not Conclude-.

Further In Summer Than The Birds Pathetic From The Grass A Minor Nation Celebrates Its Unobtrusive Mass. No Ordinance Be Seen So Gradual The Grace A Pensive Custom It Becomes Enlarging Loneliness. Antiquest Felt At Noon When August Burning Low Arise This Spectral Canticle Repose To Typify Remit As Yet No Grace No Furrow On The Glow Yet A Druidic Difference Enhances Nature Now.

Unable Are The Loved To Die, For Love Is Immortality.

The Sun Just Touched The Morning; The Morning, Happy Thing, Supposed That He Had Come To Dwell, And Life Would Be All Spring.

I Measure Every Grief I Meet With Narrow, Probing Eyes - I Wonder If It Weighs Like Mine - Or Has An Easier Size.