The soul...is audible, not visible.

So disasters come not singly; But as if they watched and waited, Scanning one another's motions, When the first descends, the others Follow, follow, gathering flock-wiseRound their victim, sick and wounded, First a shadow, then a sorrow, Till the air is dark with anguish.

From dust thou art to dust returneth, was not spoken of the soul.

And when she was good she was very very good. But when she was bad she was horrid.

Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.

Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

The morning pouring everywhere, its golden glory on the air.