Stung by the splendour of a sudden thought.
Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven.
He guides me and the bird. In His good time!
Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her- Next time, herself!-not the trouble behind her
All poetry is putting the infinite within the finite.
Graved inside of it, "Italy".