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.

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

This is the Hour of Lead- Remembered, if outlived, As freezing persons, recollect the Snow- First-Chill-then Stupor- then the letting go---

I dwell in possiblities.

I must go in, the fog is rising.

Life is a spell so exquisite that everything conspires to break it.

My love for those I love -- not many -- not very many, but don't I love them so?