Opinion Is A Flitting Thing

The Vastest Earthly Day Is Shrunken Small By One Defaulting Face Behind A Pall.

We Both Believe, And Disbelieve A Hundred Times An Hour, Which Keeps Believing Nimble.

There Is A Pain So Utter, It Swallows Being Up; The Covers The Abyss With A Trance So Memory Can Step Around, Across, Upon It.

It Is Easy To Work When The Soul Is At Play.

They Say That God Is Everywhere, And Yet We Always Think Of Him As Somewhat Of A Recluse.