Split the Lark — and you'll find the Music, Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled. - Emily Dickinson

I find myself still softly searching for my delinquent palaces.

Since then — 'tis Centuries — and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses' Heads Were toward Eternity —

I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?
“For beauty,” I replied.
“And I for truth, — the two are one;
We brethren are,” he said.

And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.