You're Something Between A Dream And A

Think, In Mounting Higher, The Angels Would Press On Us, And Aspire To Drop Some Golden Orb Of Perfect Song Into Our Deep, Dear Silence.

And Is It Not The Chief Good Of Money, The Being Free From The Need Of Thinking Of It?

He Lives Most Life Whoever Breathes Most Air.

Life, Struck Sharp On Death, Makes Awful Lightning.

O Earth, So Full Of Dreary Noises! O Men, With Wailing In Your Voices! O Delved Gold, The Wader's Heap! O Strife, O Curse, That O'er It Fall! God Makes A Silence Through You All, And "giveth His Beloved, Sleep.