A letter always seemed to me like immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.
Sweet Skepticism of the Heart That knows and does not know And tosses like a Fleet of Balm Affronted by the snow.
To shut your eyes is to travel.
That love is all there is, Is all we know of love.
This is my letter to the world That never wrote to me
We both believe, and disbelieve a hundred times an hour, which keeps believing nimble.