Whatever Our Souls Are Made Of, His

Shall Earth No More Inspire Thee, Thou Lonely Dreamer Now?

Oh, For The Time When I Shall Sleep Without Identity.

But There's This One Difference: One Is Gold Put To The Use Of Paving-stones, And The Other Is Tin Polished To Ape A Service Of Silver. Mine Has Nothing Valuable About It; Yet I Shall Have The Merit Of Making It Go As Far As Such Poor Stuff Can Go. His Had First-rate Qualities, And They Are Lost, Rendered Worst Than Unavailing.

I Love The Ground Under His Feet, And The Air Over His Head, And Everything He Touches And Every Word He Says. I Love All His Looks, And All His Actions And Him Entirely And All Together.

If You Ever Looked At Me Once With What I Know Is In You, I'd Be Your Slave.