It don’t sound so terrible—quite—as it did— I run it over—”Dead”, Brain, “Dead.” Put it in Latin—left of my school— Seems it don’t shriek so—under rule.
Turn it, a little—full in the face A Trouble looks bitterest— Shift it—just— Say “When Tomorrow comes this way— I shall have waded down one Day.”
I suppose it will interrupt me some Till I get accustomed—but then the Tomb Like other new Things—shows largest—then— And smaller, by Habit—
It’s shrewder then Put the Thought in advance—a Year— How like “a fit”—then— ******—wear!
