How Softly Summer Shuts, Without

Hope . . . Never Stops At All.

Mirth Is The Mail Of Anguish --

Pain - Has An Element Of Blank It Cannot Recollect When It Begun - Or If There Were A Time When It Was Not - It Has No Future - But Itself - Its Infinite Contain Its Past - Enlightened To Perceive New Periods - Of Pain.

God Is Indeed A Jealous God. He Cannot Bear To See, That We Had Rather Not With Him, But With Each Other Play.

A Great Hope Fell You Heard No Noise The Ruin Was Within.