I Do Not Like The

It Might Be Lonelier Without The Loneliness - I’m So Accustomed To My Fate - Perhaps The Other - Peace - Would Interrupt The Dark - And Crowd The Little Room - Too Scant - By Cubits - To Contain The Sacrament - Of Him - I Am Not Used To Hope - It Might Intrude Upon - Its Sweet Parade - Blaspheme The Place - Ordained To Suffering - It Might Be Easier To Fail - With Land In Sight - Than Gain - My Blue Peninsula - To Perish - Of Delight -

The Soul Should Always Stand Ajar.

Nature Is What We Know - Yet Have Not Art To Say - So Impotent Our Wisdom Is To Her Simplicity.

How Softly Summer Shuts, Without The Creaking Of A Door.

Friends Are Nations In Themselves.