I Dwell In Possibility A Fairer House

I Cannot Live With You, It Would Be Life, And Life Is Over There Behind The Shelf

A Wounded Deer Leaps Highest, I've Heard The Hunter Tell; 'tis But The Ecstasy Of Death, And Then The Brake Is Still. The Smitten Rock That Gushes, The Trampled Steel That Springs,, A Cheek Is Always Redder Just Where The Hectic Stings Mirth Is Mail Of Anguish, In Which Its Cautious Arm Lest Anybody Spy The Blood And, You're Hurt Exclaim.

When I State Myself, As The Representative Of The Verse, It Does Not Mean Me, But A Supposed Person.

Till The First Friend Dies, We Think Our Ecstasy Impersonal, But Then Discover That He Was The Cup From Which We Drank It, Itself As Yet Unknown.

I Dwell In Possibility.