A Courteous, Yet Harrowing Grace, As Guest,

The Soul Selects Her Own Society.

When Everything That Ticked Has Stopped, And Space Stares, All Around, Or Grisly Frosts, First Autumn Morns, Repeal The Beating Ground.

Longing, It May Be, Is The Gift No Other Gift Supplies.

My Business Is Circumference.

Faith—is The Pierless Bridge Supporting What We See Unto The Scene That We Do Not— Too Slender For The Eye It Bears The Soul As Bold As It Were Rocked In Steel With Arms Of Steel At Either Side— It Joins—behind The Veil To What, Could We Presume The Bridge Would Cease To Be To Our Far, Vacillating Feet A First Necessity.