How Beautiful, If Sorrow Had Not Made

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

O Aching Time! O Moments Big As Years!

Where The Nightingale Doth Sing Not A Senseless, Tranced Thing, But Divine Melodious Truth.

Thou Foster-child Of Silence And Slow Time.

One Of The Most Mysterious Of Semi-speculations Is, One Would Suppose, That Of One Mind's Imagining Into Another