The possible's slow fuse is lit by the Imagination.

The steeples swam in amethyst, the news like squirrels swam.

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege I think.

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.

Heart, we will forget him, You and I, tonight! You must forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light.

I SEE thee better in the dark, I do not need a light. The love of thee a prism be Excelling violet. I see thee better for the years That hunch themselves between, The miner’s lamp sufficient be To nullify the mine. And in the grave I see thee best— Its little panels be A-glow, all ruddy with the light I held so high for thee! What need of day to those whose dark Hath so surpassing sun, It seem it be continually At the meridian?

An ear can break a human heart As quickly as a spear, We wish the ear had not a heart So dangerously near.