It Is True That The Unknown Is

I Had A Terror-since September -i Could Tell To None-and So I Sing, As The Boy Does By The Burying Ground-because I Am Afraid.

Each That We Lose Takes A Part Of Us; A Crescent Still Abides, Which Like The Moon, Some Turbid Night, Is Summoned By The Tides.

The Brain Is Just The Weight Of God-- For--heft Them--pound For Pound-- And They Will Differ--if They Do-- As Syllable From Sound

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers That Perches In The Soul.

A Letter Is A Joy Of Earth - It Is Denied The Gods