I Do Not Feel I Could Give

The Possible's Slow Fuse Is Lit By The Imagination.

It Was A Quiet Way - He Asked If I Was His - I Made No Answer Of The Tongue But Answer Of The Eyes - And Then He Bore Me On Before This Mortal Noise With Swiftness, As Of Chariots And Distance, As Of Wheels. This World Did Drop Away As Acres From The Feet Of One That Leaneth From Balloon Upon An Ether Street. The Gulf Behind Was Not, The Continents Were New - Eternity Was Due. No Seasons Were To Us - It Was Not Night Nor Morn - But Sunrise Stopped Upon The Place And Fastened In Dawn.

It Is Essential To The Sanity Of Mankind That Each One Should Think The Other Crazy - A Condition With Which The Cynicism Of Human Nature So Cordially Complies, One Could Wish It Were A Concurrence Upon A Subject More Noble.

Our Journey Had Advanced; Our Feet Were Almost Come To That Odd Fork In Being's Road, Eternity By Term.

My Only Sketch, Profile, Of Heaven Is A Large Blue Sky, And Larger Than The Biggest I Have Seen In June - And In It Are My Friends - Every One Of Them.