I'll Tell You How The Sun Rose.

That No Flake Of [snow] Fall On You Or Them - Is A Wish That Would Be A Prayer, Were Emily Not A Pagan.

Eden Is That Old-fashioned House We Dwell In Every Day Without Suspecting Our Abode Until We Drive Away.

That Short, Potential Stir That Each Can Make But Once, That Bustle So Illustrious Tis Almost Consequence, Is The Eclat Of Death.

After A Hundred Years Nobody Knows The Place, Agony, That Enacted There, Motionless As Peace.

Behavior Is What A Man Does, Not What He Thinks, Feels, Or Believes.