Through The Dancing Poppies Stole

I Have An Habitual Feeling Of My Real Life Having Past, And That I Am Leading A Posthumous Existence.

Sometimes Goldfinches One By One Will Drop From Low Hung Branches; Little Space They Stop; But Sip, And Twitter, And Their Feathers Sleek; Then Off At Once, As In A Wanton Freak: Or Perhaps, To Show Their Black, And Golden Wings Pausing Upon Their Yellow Flutterings.

I Have So Much Of You In My Heart.

Was It A Vision Or A Waking Dream? Fled Is That Music--do I Wake Or Sleep?

Feeling Well That Breathed Words Would All Be Lost, Unheard, And Vain As Swords Against The Enchased Crocodile, Or Leaps Of Grasshoppers Against The Sun.