Truth is such a rare thing, it is delightful to tell it.
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee, And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few.
To live is so startling, it leaves but little room for other occupations.
This is the Hour of Lead — Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow — First — Chill — then Stupor — then the letting go —
They might not need me — yet they might — I’ll let my Head be just in sight — A smile as small as mine might be Precisely their necessity —
There is no Frigate like a Book To take us Lands away Nor any Coursers like a Page Of prancing Poetry — This Traverse may the poorest take Without opress of Toll — How frugal is the Chariot That bears the Human soul
The Sweets of Pillage, can be known To no one but the Thief — Compassion for Integrity Is his divinest Grief —
The sweeping up the Heart And putting Love away We shall not want to use again Until Eternity.
The Sun – just touched the Morning – The Morning – Happy thing – Supposed that He had come to dwell – And Life would all be Spring!
The Soul selects her own Society — Then — shuts the Door — To her divine Majority — Present no more —
The Pedigree of Honey Does not concern the Bee — A Clover, any time, to him, Is Aristocracy.
The life doth prove the precept, who obey shall happy be, Who will not serve the sovereign, be hanged on fatal tree.
