Longing, it may be, is the gift no other gift supplies.
A little Madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King.
I work to drive the awe away, yet awe impels the work.
We both believe, and disbelieve a hundred times an hour, which keeps believing nimble.
The sun just touched the morning; The morning, happy thing, Supposed that he had come to dwell, And life would be all spring.
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.