To multiply the harbors does not reduce the sea.

I wonder if it hurts to live, And if they have to try, And whether, could they choose between, They would not rather die.

But a Book is only the Heart's Portrait- every Page a Pulse.

I'll tell you how the sun rose, a ribbon at a time. The steeples swam in amethyst, The news like squirrels ran. The hills untied their bonnets, The bobolinks begun. Then I said softly to myself, "That must have been the sun!

The power to console is not within corporeal reach - though its attempt is precious.

My business is circumference.

The Soul selects her own Society.