If Your Nerve, Deny You - Go

The Soul Should Always Stand Ajar.

I . . . Am Small, Like The Wren, And My Hair Is Bold Like The Chestnut Burr; And My Eyes Like The Sherry In The Glass That The Guest Leaves.

When Everything That Ticked Has Stopped, And Space Stares, All Around, Or Grisly Frosts, First Autumn Morns, Repeal The Beating Ground.

He Fumbles At Your Spirit As Players At The Keys Before They Drop Full Music On; He Stuns You By Degrees. Prepares Your Brittle Substance For The Ethereal Blow By Fainter Hammers, Further Heard, Then Nearer, Then So Slow Your Breath Has Time To Straighten Your Brain To Bubble Cool,- Deals One Imperial Thunderbolt That Scalps Your Naked Soul.

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers That Perches In The Soul, And Sings The Tune Without The Words, And Never Stops At All, And Sweetest In The Gale Is Heard; And Sore Must Be The Storm That Could Abash The Little Bird That Kept So Many Warm. I've Heard It In The Chilliest Land And On The Strangest Sea; Yet, Never, In Extremity, It Asked A Crumb Of Me.