To Shut Your Eyes Is To Travel.

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?

So Instead Of Getting To Heaven, At Last - I’m Going, All Along.

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

Narcotics Cannot Still The Tooth. That Nibbles At The Soul

Then, As Horizons Step, Or Noons Report Away,without The Formula Of Sound, It Passes, And We Stay:a Quality Of Loss Affecting Our Content.