Till I Loved I Never Lived.

Those Who Lift Their Hats Shall See Nature As Devout Do God.

Love Is Done When Loves Begun, Sages Say, But Have Sages Known?

After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes. The Nerves Sit Ceremonious, Like Tombs.

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—

I Would Paint A Portrait Which Would Bring The Tears, Had I Canvas For It, And The Scene Should Be -- Solitude, And The Figures -- Solitude -- And The Lights And Shades, Each A Solitude.