I work to drive the awe away, yet awe impels the work.

Enough is so vast a sweetness I suppose it never occurs.

I cannot help esteem The 'Bird within the Hand' Superior to the one The 'Bush' may yield me Or may not Too late to choose again

We do not play on Graves— Because there isn't Room— Besides—it isn't even—it slants And People come— And put a Flower on it— And hang their faces so— We're fearing that their Hearts will drop— And crush our pretty play— And so we move as far As Enemies—away— Just looking round to see how far It is—Occasionally—

Hold dear to your parents for it is a scary and confusing world without them.

Friends are nations in themselves.

Tis not that dieing hurts us so- tis living- hurts us more.