The poet lights the light and fades away. But the light goes on and on.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.
Speech is one symptom of affection; and silence one; the perfect communication is heard of none.
How happy is the little stone That rambles in the road alone, And doesn't care about careers, And exigencies never fears; Whose coat of elemental brown A passing universe put on; And independent as the sun, Associates or glows alone, Fulfilling absolute decree In casual simplicity.
Enough is so vast a sweetness I suppose it never occurs.
A power of Butterfly must be - The Aptitude to fly Meadows of Majesty concedes And easy Sweeps of Sky -