The Soul Selects Her Own Society.

It Sounded As If The Streets Were Running, And Then The Streets Stood Still.

Enough Is So Vast A Sweetness I Suppose It Never Occurs.

Remorse Is Cureless--the Disease Not Even God--can Heal-- For 'tis His Institution--and The Adequate Of Hell

The Sun Just Touched The Morning; The Morning, Happy Thing, Supposed That He Had Come To Dwell, And Life Would Be All Spring.

After A Hundred Years Nobody Knows The Place, Agony, That Enacted There, Motionless As Peace.