She Hurried At His Words,

Beauty Is Truth, Truth Beauty,-that Is All Ye Know On Earth, And All Ye Need To Know.

Thou Foster-child Of Silence And Slow Time.

We Read Fine Things But Never Feel Them To The Full Until We Have Gone The Same Steps As The Author.

Turn The Key Deftly In The Oiled Wards, And Seal The Hushed Casket Of My Soul.

My Spirit Is Too Weak--mortality Weighs Heavily On Me Like Unwilling Sleep, And Each Imagin'd Pinnacle And Steep Of Godlike Hardship Tells Me I Must Die Like A Sick Eagle Looking At The Sky.