I Work To Drive The Awe Away,

We Meet No Stranger, But Ourself.

I'll Tell You How The Sun Rose, A Ribbon At A Time. The Steeples Swam In Amethyst, The News Like Squirrels Ran. The Hills Untied Their Bonnets, The Bobolinks Begun. Then I Said Softly To Myself, "that Must Have Been The Sun!

I Cannot Help Esteem The 'bird Within The Hand' Superior To The One The 'bush' May Yield Me Or May Not Too Late To Choose Again

Some Arrows Slay But Whom They Strike - But This Slew All But Him - Who So Appareled His Escape - Too Trackless For A Tomb

Is Bliss Then, Such Abyss, I Must Not Put My Foot Amiss For Fear I Spoil My Shoe? I'd Rather Suit My Foot Than Save My Boot -- For Yet To Buy Another Pair Is Possible, At Any Store -- But Bliss, Is Sold Just Once. The Patent Lost None Buy It Any More --