Nothing Is The Force That

The Morning After Woe- Tis Frequently The Way- Surpasses All That Rose Before- For Utter Jubilee-.

A Courteous, Yet Harrowing Grace, As Guest, That Would Be Gone

Heaven Is So Far Of The Mind That Were The Mind Dissolved - The Site Of It By Architect Could Not Again Be Proved.

Grant Me, O Lord, A Sunny Mind-thy Windy Will To Bear!

Love Is Its Own Rescue; For We, At Our Supremest, Are But Its Trembling Emblems.