Love — is anterior to Life — Posterior — to Death — Initial of Creation, and The Exponent of Earth —
Like Men and Women Shadows walk Upon the Hills Today — With here and there a mighty Bow Or trailing Courtesy To Neighbors doubtless of their own Not quickened to perceive Minuter landscape as Ourselves And Boroughs where we live —
Life is a spell so exquisite that everything conspires to break it.
It was not Death, for I stood up, And all the Dead, lie down — It was not Night, for all the Bells Put out their Tongues, for Noon.
In such a porcelain life, one likes to be sure that all is well, lest one stumble upon one’s hopes in a pile of broken crockery.
Immortal is an ample word When what we need is by But when it leaves us for a time ‘Tis a necessity.
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?
If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain
If fame belonged to me, I could not escape her; if she did not, the longest day would pass me on the chase, and the approbation of my dog would forsake me then. My barefoot rank is better.
I hope you love birds, too. It is economical. It saves going to Heaven.
I have a brother and sister; my mother does not care for thought, and father, too busy with his briefs to notice what we do. He buys me many books, but begs me not to read them, because he fears they joggle the mind.
I had no portrait, now, but am small, like the wren; and my hair is bold, like the chestnut burr; and my eyes, like the sherry in the glass that the guest leaves.
