Yet Not With All Of Me Am

Cold Love’s The Loveliest Love Of All. So Clear, So Crisp, So Empty. In Short, So Civilized.

Yet Not With All Of Me Am I In Love. Too Much Of My Own Quietness Is With Me.

Mount And Begone. The World Awaits You.

I Was Brooding, Boy. Than Which There Is No Richer Pastime. It Muffles One With Rotting Plumes. It Gives Forth Sullen Music. It Is The Smell Of Home.

The Crumbling Castle, Looming Among The Mists, Exhaled The Season, And Every Cold Stone Breathed It Out. The Tortured Trees By The Dark Lake Burned And Dripped, Their Leaves Snatched By The Wind Were Whirled In Wild Circles Through The Towers. The Clouds Mouldered As They Lay Coiled, Or Shifted Themselves Uneasily Upon The Stone Skyfield, Sending Up Wreathes That Drifted Through The Turrets And Swarmed Up Hidden Walls.