Morning without you is a dwindled dawn.
There's a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons-- That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes--
Anger as soon as fed is dead - 'Tis starving makes it fat.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.
One need not be a chamber to be haunted; One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing Material place.
My life closed twice before its' close- It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me. So huge, so hopeless to concieve As these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.
They say that God is everywhere, and yet we always think of Him as somewhat of a recluse.
We turn not older with years, but newer every day.
Anger as soon as fed is dead- 'Tis starving makes it fat.
We outgrow love like other things and put it in a drawer, till it an antique fashion shows like costumes grandsires wore.