Hope Is The Thing With Feathers That

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—

The Spirit Lurks Within The Flesh Like Tides Within The Sea That Make The Water Live, Estranged What Would The Either Be?

To Live Is So Startling It Leaves Little Time For Anything Else.

Memory Is A Strange Bell—jubilee, And Knell.

My Business Is Circumference.