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

This is the Hour of Lead- Remembered, if outlived, As freezing persons, recollect the Snow- First-Chill-then Stupor- then the letting go---

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

When we think of his lone effort to live and its bleak reward, the mind turns to the myth "for His mercy endureth forever," with confiding revulsion.

That love is all there is, Is all we know of love.

Sweet Skepticism of the Heart That knows and does not know And tosses like a Fleet of Balm Affronted by the snow.

The soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more.