Beauty Crowds Me Till I

To Possess Is Past The Instant; We Achieve The Joy, Immortality Contented, Were Anomaly.

Prayer Is The Little Implement Through Which Men Reach; Where Presence Is Denied Them.

There's A Certain Slant Of Light, Winter Afternoons— That Oppresses, Like The Heft Of Cathedral Tunes— Heavenly Hurt, It Gives Us— We Can Find No Scar, But Internal Difference, Where The Meanings, Are.... When It Comes, The Landscape Listens— Shadows—hold Their Breath— When It Goes, 'tis Like The Distance On The Look Of Death.

I Must Go In, The Fog Is Rising.

Saying Nothing... Sometimes Says The Most.