And he whose soul is flat -- the sky Will cave in on him by and by.
... but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight
That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood.
I had a little sorrow, Born of a little sin.
O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
There are a hundred places where I fear To go, --so with his memory they brim! And entering with relief some quiet place Where never fell his foot or shone his face I say, 'There is no memory of him here!' And so stand stricken, so remembering him!