A Pin Has A Head, But Has

As A Tree My Sin Stands To Darken All Lands; Death Is The Fruit It Bore.

Hope Is Like A Hairball Trembling From Its Birth.

O Passing Angel, Speed Me With A Song, A Melody Of Heaven To Reach My Heart And Rouse Me To The Race And Make Me Strong.

I Lock My Door Upon Myself, And Bar Them Out; But Who Shall Wall Self From Myself, Most Loathed Of All?

The Bourne Underneath The Growing Grass, Underneath The Living Flowers, Deeper Than The Sound Of Showers: There We Shall Not Count The Hours By The Shadows As They Pass. Youth And Health Will Be But Vain, Beauty Reckoned Of No Worth: There A Very Little Girth Can Hold Round What Once The Earth Seemed Too Narrow To Contain.