I dwell in possiblities.

A power of Butterfly must be - The Aptitude to fly Meadows of Majesty concedes And easy Sweeps of Sky -

He fumbles at your spirit As players at the keys Before they drop full music on; He stuns you by degrees. Prepares your brittle substance For the ethereal blow by fainter hammers, further heard, Then nearer, then so slow Your breath has time to straighten Your brain to bubble cool,- Deals one imperial thunderbolt That scalps your naked soul.

a sick room is at times too sacred a place for a friend's knock, timid as that is.

Wonder is not precisely knowing.

The Things that never can come back, are several - Childhood - some forms of Hope - the Dead.

But a Book is only the Heart's Portrait- every Page a Pulse.