But a Book is only the Heart's Portrait- every Page a Pulse.

There's a certain slant of light, On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes.

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

I do not feel I could give up all for Christ, were I called to die.

To be alive──is Power.

Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.

The friend anguish reveals is the slowest forgot.