Faith Is A Fine Invention

In The Name Of The Bee And Of The Butterfly And Of The Breeze, Amen!

We Turn Not Older With Years But Newer Every Day.

Mirth Is The Mail Of Anguish --

After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes. The Nerves Sit Ceremonious, Like Tombs.

I Measure Every Grief I Meet With Narrow, Probing Eyes - I Wonder If It Weighs Like Mine - Or Has An Easier Size.