Blessed Be Death, That Cuts In Marble

Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare.

This Have I Known Always: Love Is No More Than The Wide Blossom Which The Wind Assails, Than The Great Tide That Treads The Shifting Shore, Strewing Fresh Wreckage Gathered In The Gales; Pity Me That The Heart Is Slow To Learn, That The Swift Mind Beholds At Every Turn.

I Find That I Never Lose Bach. I Don't Know Why I Have Always Loved Him So. Except That He Is So Pure, So Relentless And Incorruptible, Like A Principle Of Geometry.

Should At That Moment The Full Moon Step Forth Upon The Hill, And Memories Hard To Bear At Noon, By Moonlight Harder Still, Form In The Shadows Of The Trees, - Things That You Could Not Spare And Live, Or So You Thought, Yet These All Gone, And You Still There, A Man No Longer What He Was, Not Yet The Thing He Planned.

What Terrible Fear Causes Man To Address The Void As Thou?