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

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.

Some Arrows slay but whom they strike - But this slew all but him - Who so appareled his Escape - Too trackless for a Tomb

God's little Blond Blessing we have long deemed you, and hope his so-called Will will not compel him to revoke you.

Apparently with no surprise To any happy Flower The Frost beheads it at its play -- In accidental power -- The blonde Assassin passes on -- The Sun proceeds unmoved To measure off another Day For an Approving God.

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

One step at a time is all it takes to get you there.