Doubting Pleases Me No Less Than Knowing

Here Let Dead Poetry Rise Once More To Life.

In The Midway Of This Our Mortal Life, I Found Me In A Gloomy Wood, Astray, Gone From The Path Direct.

He Listens Well Who Takes Notes.

I Was So Full Of Sleep At The Time That I Left The True Way.

At Grief So Deep The Tongue Must Wag In Vain; The Language Of Our Sense And Memory Lacks The Vocabulary Of Such Pain.