The power to console is not within corporeal reach - though its attempt is precious.

A little Madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King.

My life closed twice before its close

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

Pain - has an Element of Blank It cannot recollect When it begun - or if there were a time when it was not - It has no Future - but itself - Its Infinite contain Its Past - enlightened to perceive New Periods - of Pain.

We do not play on Graves— Because there isn't Room— Besides—it isn't even—it slants And People come— And put a Flower on it— And hang their faces so— We're fearing that their Hearts will drop— And crush our pretty play— And so we move as far As Enemies—away— Just looking round to see how far It is—Occasionally—

Forever is made up of nows.