Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.

Lord I do fear / Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year.

Stranger, pause and look; From the dust of ages Lift this little book, Turn the tattered pages, Read me, do not let me die! Search the fading letters finding Steadfast in the broken binding All that once was I!

We were so wholly one I had not thought That we could die apart. I had not thought That I could move,—and you be stiff and still! That I could speak,—and you perforce be dumb! I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof In some firm fabric, woven in and out; Your golden filaments in fair design Across my duller fibre.

Please don't think me negligent or rude. I am both, in effect, of course, but please don't think me either.

This book, when I am dead, will be A little faint perfume of me. People who knew me well will say, She really used to think that way.

And all the loveliest things there be come simply, so it seems to me.