Fame is a bee. It has a song — It has a sting — Ah, too, it has a wing.
Even the possible has its insoluble particle.
Dying is a wild Night and a new Road.
Death’s Waylaying not the sharpest Of the thefts of Time — There Marauds a sorer Robber, Silence — is his name — No Assault, nor any Menace Doth betoken him. But from Life’s consummate Cluster — He supplants the Balm.
Death is a Dialogue between The Spirit and the Dust.
Bring me the sunset in a cup.
Best Grief is Tongueless — before He’ll tell — Burn Him in the Public Square —
Because I could not stop for Death — He kindly stopped for me — The Carriage held but just Ourselves — And Immortality.
Beauty — be not caused — It Is —
Anger as soon as fed is dead — ‘Tis starving makes it fat —
After great pain, a formal feeling comes — The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs —
A wounded Deer — leaps highest —