If I Feel Physically As If The

Fame Is A Fickle Food Upon A Shifting Plate.

I Measure Every Grief I Meet With Narrow, Probing Eyes - I Wonder If It Weighs Like Mine - Or Has An Easier Size.

This Is My Letter To The World That Never Wrote To Me

Judge Tenderly Of Me.

There's A Certain Slant Of Light, On Winter Afternoons, That Oppresses, Like The Weight Of Cathedral Tunes.