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There Is A Solitude Of Space. A Solitude Of Sea. A Solitude Of Death, But These Societies Shall Be Compared With That Profounder Site-that Polar Privacy. A Soul Admitted To Itself--finite Infinity.

This Is My Letter To The World, That Never Wrote To Me, The Simple News That Nature Told, With Tender Majesty. Her Message Is Committed, To Hands I Cannot See; For Love Of Her, Sweet Countrymen, Judge Tenderly Of Me.

The Brain Is Wider Than The Sky, For, Put Them Side By Side, The One The Other Will Include With Ease, And You Beside.

There's A Certain Slant Of Light, Winter Afternoons— That Oppresses, Like The Heft Of Cathedral Tunes— Heavenly Hurt, It Gives Us— We Can Find No Scar, But Internal Difference, Where The Meanings, Are.... When It Comes, The Landscape Listens— Shadows—hold Their Breath— When It Goes, 'tis Like The Distance On The Look Of Death.

The Will Is Always Near, Dear, Though The Feet Vary.