Great Sorrows Cannot Speak.

Yesternight The Sun Went Hence, And Yet Is Here Today.

Poetry Is A Counterfeit Creation, And Makes Things That Are Not, As Though They Were

Twice Or Thrice Had I Loved Thee Before I Knew Thy Face Or Name, So In A Voice, So In A Shapeless Flame, Angels Affect Us Oft, And Worshiped Be.

The Psalms Foretell What I, What Any Shall Do And Suffer And Say.

Doth Not A Man Die Even In His Birth? The Breaking Of Prison Is Death, And What Is Our Birth, But A Breaking Of Prison?