Or Thou Might'st Better Listen To The

I Cannot See What Flowers Are At My Feet, Nor What Soft Incense Hangs Upon The Boughs, But, In Embalmed Darkness, Guess Each Sweet.

My Spirit Is Too Weak--mortality Weighs Heavily On Me Like Unwilling Sleep, And Each Imagin'd Pinnacle And Steep Of Godlike Hardship Tells Me I Must Die Like A Sick Eagle Looking At The Sky.

The Grandeur Of The Dooms We Have Imagined For The Mighty Dead.

And How They Kist Each Other's Tremulous Eyes.

There Is Not A Fiercer Hell Than The Failure In A Great Object.