Wan Night, The Shadow Goer, Came Stepping

I Run The Gauntlet Of A File Of Doubts, Each One Of Which Down Hurls Me To The Ground.

Lips Like Rosebuds Peeping Out Of Snow.

The Course Of Nature Seems A Course Of Death, And Nothingness The Whole Substantial Thing.

We Live In Deeds, Not Years; In Thoughts, Not Breaths; In Feelings, Not In Figures On A Dial.

Poets Are All Who Love, Who Feel Great Truths, And Tell Them; And The Truth Of Truths Is Love.