His ears were often the first thing to catch my tears.

Think, in mounting higher, the angels would press on us, and aspire to drop some golden orb of perfect song into our deep, dear silence.

Souls are gregarious in a sense, but no soul touches another, as a general rule.

Souls are dangerous things to carry straight through all the spilt saltpetre of this world.

Whoso loves, believes in the impossible

A grave, on which to rest from singing?

Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.