Hope Is The Thing With Feathers That

That Love Is All There Is, Is All We Know Of Love.

... And Then I Heard Them Lift A Box, And Creak Across My Soul With Those Same Boots Of Lead, Again, Then Space Began To Toll.

Beauty Crowds Me Till I Die.

Fame Is A Fickle Food Upon A Shifting Plate, Whose Table Once A Guest, But Not The Second Time, Is Set. Whose Crumbs The Crows Inspect, And With Ironic Caw Flap Past It To The Farmer's Corn; Men Eat Of It And Die.

Morning Without You Is A Dwindled Dawn.