As all
The heavens were a bell
But an
Ear
Some strange
Race
Solitary
Here
Title; i felt a
Funeral in my brain
Title; the soul
Has bandaged moments
Goblin from
The very lips
The bee dilirious borne
Long dungeoned from his rose
The nerves sit
Ceremonious like tombs
After great pain
A formal feeling comes
As freezing persons
First chill. Then vapour
Title; i heard
A fly buss when i died
The eyes around
Had wrung them dry
There interposed
A fly
Title; hope is a
Thing with feathers
That could
Abash the little bird
In the gale.. is heard
And sore must the storm be
The chillest
Land
This is the
Hour of lead
Remembered if
Outlived
And finished
Knowing then-
Dry-
Buzz-