A Word That Breathes Distinctly Has Not

Inebriate Of Air Am I, And Debauchee Of Dew, Reeling, Through Endless Summer Days, From Inns Of Molten Blue.

Remorse Is Memory Awake.

A Light Exists In Spring Not Present In The Year At Any Other Period When March Is Scarcely Here.

The Spreading Wide My Narrow Hands / To Gather Paradise-.

I Have An Appetite For Silence.