Pain has an element of blank
Nature is a haunted house--but Art--is a house that tries to be haunted.
A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege I think.
I cannot help esteem The 'Bird within the Hand' Superior to the one The 'Bush' may yield me Or may not Too late to choose again
In the name of the bee And of the butterfly And of the breeze, amen!
I must go in, the fog is rising.