Knew I how to pray, to intercede for your [broken] Foot were intuitive - but I am but a Pagan.

Here is a little forest Whose leaf is ever green; Here is a brighter garden, Where not a frost has been; In its unfading flowers I hear the bright bee hum; Prithee, my brother, Into my garden come!

Had we less to say to those we love, perhaps we should say it oftener.

How lucious lies the pea within the pod.

The truth I do not dare to know I muffle with a jest.

Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality. We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put away My labour, and my leisure too, For his civility. We passed the school where children played, Their lessons scarcely done; We passed the fields of gazing grain, We passed the setting sun. We paused before a house that seemed A swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound. Since then 'tis centuries; but each Feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses' heads Were toward eternity.

That no Flake of [snow] fall on you or them - is a wish that would be a Prayer, were Emily not a Pagan.