pity me that the heart is slow to learn what the swift mind beholds at every turn.

Beauty in all things-no, we cannot hope for that; but some place set apart for it.

I make bean stalks, I'm A builder, like yourself.

That which has quelled me, lives with me, Accomplice in catastrophe.

SHE is neither pink nor pale, And she never will be all mine; She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine. She has more hair than she needs; In the sun ’tis a woe to me! And her voice is a string of colored beads, Or steps leading into the sea. She loves me all that she can, And her ways to my ways resign; But she was not made for any man, And she never will be all mine.

I am not a tentative person. Whatever I do, I give up my whole self to it.

To a Young Poet Time cannot break the bird's wing from the bird. Bird and wing together Go down, one feather. No thing that ever flew, Not the lark, not you, Can die as others do.