Beauty Crowds Me Till I Die. Beauty,

I See Thee Better In The Dark, I Do Not Need A Light. The Love Of Thee A Prism Be Excelling Violet. I See Thee Better For The Years That Hunch Themselves Between, The Miner’s Lamp Sufficient Be To Nullify The Mine. And In The Grave I See Thee Best— Its Little Panels Be A-glow, All Ruddy With The Light I Held So High For Thee! What Need Of Day To Those Whose Dark Hath So Surpassing Sun, It Seem It Be Continually At The Meridian?

You Ask Of My Companions. Hills, Sir, And The Sundown, And A Dog As Large As Myself.

Inebriate Of Air Am I, And Debauchee Of Dew, Reeling, Through Endless Summer Days, From Inns Of Molten Blue.

I Could Not Prove The Years Had Feet-/yet Confident They Run.

There Is No Frigate Like A Book To Take Us Lands Away Nor Any Coursers Like A Page Of Prancing Poetry.