The soul can split the sky in two and let the face of God shine through.

Life in itself / Is nothing, / An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. / It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, / April / Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

But you were something more than young and sweet And fair, - and the long year remembers you.

Heap not on this mound roses that she loved so well; why bewilder her with roses that she cannot see or smell.

There is no shelter in you anywhere.

I know, but I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

Night falls fast. Today is in the past. Blown from the dark hill hither to my door Three flakes, then four Arrive, then many more.