Truth Is So Rare That

The Spreading Wide My Narrow Hands / To Gather Paradise-.

There's A Certain Slant Of Light, Winter Afternoons— That Oppresses, Like The Heft Of Cathedral Tunes— Heavenly Hurt, It Gives Us— We Can Find No Scar, But Internal Difference, Where The Meanings, Are.... When It Comes, The Landscape Listens— Shadows—hold Their Breath— When It Goes, 'tis Like The Distance On The Look Of Death.

Morning Without You Is A Dwindled Dawn.

Portrait The World Spreads Out On Either Side No Farther Than The Heart Is Wide.

The Appetite For Silence Is Seldom An Acquired Taste.