Then, As Horizons Step, Or Noons Report

To Live Is So Startling It Leaves Little Time For Anything Else.

There Is A Pain So Utter, It Swallows Being Up; The Covers The Abyss With A Trance So Memory Can Step Around, Across, Upon It.

My Friends Are My Estate. Forgive Me Then The Avarice To Hoard Them. They Tell Me Those Who Were Poor Early Have Different Views Of Gold. I Don't Know How That Is. God Is Not So Wary As We, Else He Would Give Us No Friends, Lest We Forget Him.

A Word That Breathes Distinctly Has Not The Power To Die

I Dwell In Possibility A Fairer House Than Prose More Numerous Of Windows Superior — For Doors.