Till I Loved I Never

That Short, Potential Stir That Each Can Make But Once, That Bustle So Illustrious Tis Almost Consequence, Is The Eclat Of Death.

Common Sense Is Almost As Omniscient As God.

As Summer Into Autumn Slips And Yet We Sooner Say "the Summer" Than "the Autumn," Lest We Turn The Sun Away, And Almost Count It An Affront The Presence To Concede Of One However Lovely, Not The One That We Have Loved - So We Evade The Charge Of Years On One Attempting Shy The Circumvention Of The Shaft Of Life's Declivity.

Faith—is The Pierless Bridge Supporting What We See Unto The Scene That We Do Not— Too Slender For The Eye It Bears The Soul As Bold As It Were Rocked In Steel With Arms Of Steel At Either Side— It Joins—behind The Veil To What, Could We Presume The Bridge Would Cease To Be To Our Far, Vacillating Feet A First Necessity.

She Died--this Was The Way She Died; And When Her Breath Was Done, Took Up Her Simple Wardrobe And Started For The Sun. Her Little Figure At The Gate The Angels Must Have Spied, Since I Could Never Find Her Upon The Mortal Side.