To Be Able To Say

I Had Got This Far, And Was Thinking Of What To Say Next, And As My Habit Is, I Was Pricking The Paper Idly With My Pen. And I Thought How, Between One Dip Of The Pen And The Next, Time Goes On, And I Hurry, Drive Myself, And Speed Toward Death. We Are Always Dying. I While I Write, You While You Read, And Others While They Listen Or Stop Their Ears, They Are All Dying.

I Looked Back At The Summit Of The Mountain, Which Seemed But A Cubit High In Comparison With The Height Of Human Contemplation, Were In Not Too Often Merged In The Corruptions Of The Earth.

Great Errors Seldom Originate But With Men Of Great Minds.

And Tears Are Heard Within The Harp I Touch.

Go, Grieving Rimes Of Mine, To That Hard Stone Whereunder Lies My Darling, Lies My Dear, And Cry To Her To Speak From Heaven's Sphere.