Tis not that dieing hurts us so- tis living- hurts us more.

She died--this was the way she died; And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun. Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side.

We never know how high we are till we are called to rise. Then if we are true to form our statures touch the skies.

Heavenly Father - take to thee The supreme iniquity Fashioned by thy candid Hand In a moment contraband - Though to trust us seem to us More respectful - We are Dust - We apologize to thee For thine own Duplicity.

These are the days when birds come back, a very few, a Bird or two, to take a backward look.

This is my letter to the world That never wrote to me

I have an appetite for silence.