It Kills Me To Be Time's Eunuch

Summer Ends Now; Now, Barbarous In Beauty, The Stooks Arise Around; Up Above, What Wind-walks! What Lovely Behavior Of Silk-sack Clouds! Has Wilder, Willful-waiver Meal-drift Molded Ever And Melted Across Skies?

Thou Art Indeed Just, Lord, If I Contend With Thee; But, Sir, So What I Plead Is Just. Why Do Sinners' Ways Prosper? And Why Must Disappointment All I Endeavour End?

I Am Surprised You Shd. Say Fancy And Aesthetic Tastes Have Led Me To My Present State Of Mind: These Wd. Be Better Satisfied In The Church Of England, For Bad Taste Is Always Meeting One In The Accessories Of Catholicism.

That Piecemeal Peace Is Poor Peace. What Pure Peace Allows Alarms Of Wars, The Daunting Wars, The Death Of It?

Because The Holy Ghost Over The Bent World Broods With Warm Breast And With Ah! Bright Wings.