Some people always sigh in thanking God.
Earth's crammed with Heaven.
A grave, on which to rest from singing?
Children use the fist until they are of age to use the brain.
What is art but the life upon the larger scale, the higher. When, graduating up in a spiral line of still expanding and ascending gyres, it pushes toward the intense significance of all things, hungry for the infinite?
Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love. Yet love me--wilt thou? Open thine heart wide, And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove.