We Meet No Stranger, But Ourself.

We Do Not Play On Graves— Because There Isn't Room— Besides—it Isn't Even—it Slants And People Come— And Put A Flower On It— And Hang Their Faces So— We're Fearing That Their Hearts Will Drop— And Crush Our Pretty Play— And So We Move As Far As Enemies—away— Just Looking Round To See How Far It Is—occasionally—

One Need Not Be A Chamber To Be Haunted.

Renunciation-is A Piercing Virtue-the Letting Go A Presence-for An Expectation-.

The Poet Lights The Light And Fades Away. But The Light Goes On And On.

Nature Is A Haunted House--but Art--is A House That Tries To Be Haunted.