Portraits Are To Daily Faces

Love Can Do All But Raise The Dead I Doubt If Even That From Such A Giant Were Withheld Were Flesh Equivalent But Love Is Tired And Must Sleep, And Hungry And Must Graze And So Abets The Shining Fleet Till It Is Out Of Gaze.

Mirth Is The Mail Of Anguish --

Saying Nothing... Sometimes Says The Most.

He Fumbles At Your Spirit As Players At The Keys Before They Drop Full Music On; He Stuns You By Degrees. Prepares Your Brittle Substance For The Ethereal Blow By Fainter Hammers, Further Heard, Then Nearer, Then So Slow Your Breath Has Time To Straighten Your Brain To Bubble Cool,- Deals One Imperial Thunderbolt That Scalps Your Naked Soul.

The Words The Happy Say Are Paltry Melody But Those The Silent Feel Are Beautiful-.