Which Anguish Was The Utterest--then-- To Perish,

A Word That Breathes Distinctly Has Not The Power To Die

There's A Certain Slant Of Light, On Winter Afternoons, That Oppresses, Like The Weight Of Cathedral Tunes.

Lest I Should Be Old-fashioned, I'll Put A Trinket On.

A Bayonet's Contrition Is Nothing To The Dead.

Love Is Everything. And That's All We Know About It.