I work to drive the awe away, yet awe impels the work.

There is a pain so utter, it swallows being up; The covers the abyss with a trance So memory can step around, across, upon it.

The steeples swam in amethyst, the news like squirrels swam.

To see the Summer Sky Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie— True Poems flee—

Some keep the Sabbath going to church, I keep it staying at home, with a bobolink for a chorister, and an orchard for a dome.

One need not be a chamber to be haunted; One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing Material place.

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.