We never know how high we areTill we are called to rise;And then, if we are true to plan,Our statures touch the skies.The heroism we reciteWould be a daily thing,Did not ourselves the cubits warpFor fear to be a king.

Crumbling is not an instant's ActA fundamental pauseDilapidation's processesAre organized Decays.'Tis first a Cobweb on the SoulA Cuticle of DustA Borer in the AxisAn Elemental Rust—Ruin is formal—Devil's workConsecutive and slow—Fail in an instant, no man didSlipping—is Crash's law.

Consciousness is the only home of which we know.

One need not be a Chamber — to be Haunted— One need not be a House— The Brain — has Corridors — surpassing Material Place— Far safer, of a Midnight — meeting External Ghost— Than an Interior — Confronting— That cooler — Host. Far safer, through an Abbey — gallop— The Stones a'chase— Than Moonless — One's A'self encounter— In lonesome place— Ourself — behind ourself — Concealed— Should startle — most....