The Mortal Sickness Of A Mind Too

June Suns, You Cannot Store Them To Warm The Winter's Cold, The Lad That Hopes For Heaven Shall Fill His Mouth With Mould.

The Rainy Pleiads Wester Orion Plunges Prone, And Midnight Strikes And Hastens, And I Lie Down Alone.

These, In The Day When Heaven Was Falling, The Hour When Earth's Foundations Fled, Followed Their Mercenary Calling And Took Their Wages And Are Dead. The British Regulars Who Made The Retreat From Mons, Beginning August 24, 1914.

I Find Cambridge An Asylum, In Every Sense Of The Word.

How Clear, How Lovely Bright, How Beautiful To Sight Those Beams Of Morning Play; How Heaven Laughs Out With Glee Where, Like A Bird Set Free, Up From The Eastern Sea Soars The Delightful Day. To-day I Shall Be Strong, No More Shall Yield To Wrong, Shall Squander Life No More; Days Lost, I Know Not How, I Shall Retrieve Them Now; Now I Shall Keep The Vow I Never Kept Before. Ensanguining The Skies How Heavily It Dies Into The West Away; Past Touch And Sight And Sound Not Further To Be Found, How Hopeless Under Ground Falls The Remorseful Day.