Rapture's Self Is Three Parts Sorrow.

The Stigma Of Oddness Is The Price A Myopic World Always Exacts Of Genius.

How Loud Clocks Can Tick When A Room Is Empty, And One Is Alone!

Oh! To Be A Flower Nodding In The Sun, Bending, Then Upspringing As The Breezes Run.

To-night When The Full-bellied Moon Swallows The Stars. Grant That I Know.

My! Ain't Men Blinder'n Moles?