The truth I do not dare to know I muffle with a jest.

Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.

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—

You ask of my companions. Hills, sir, and the sundown, and a dog as large as myself.

I felt a Cleaving in my Mind- As if my Brain had split- I tried to match it- Seam by Seam- But could not make it fit.

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.

To die before one fears to die may be a boon.