The Grandeur Of The Dooms We Have

I Always Made An Awkward Bow.

Darkling I Listen; And, For Many A Time I Have Been Half In Love With Easeful Death, Called Him Soft Names In Many A Muse' D Rhyme, To Take Into The Air My Quiet Breath; Now More Than Ever Seems It Rich To Die, To Cease Upon The Midnight With No Pain, While Thou Art Pouring Forth Thy Soul Abroad In Such An Ecstasy!

You Are Always New. The Last Of Your Kisses Was Even The Sweetest; The Last Smile The Brightest; The Last Movement The Gracefullest.

Through Buried Paths, Where Sleepy Twilight Dreams The Summer Time Away.

A Man Should Have The Fine Point Of His Soul Taken Off To Become Fit For This World.