Pain has an element of blank

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.

I died for beauty but was scarce Adjusted in the tomb, When one who died for truth was lain In an adjoining room. He questioned softly why I failed? "For beauty," I replied. "And I for truth, the two are one; We brethren are," he said. And so, as kinsmen met a night, We talked between the rooms, Until the moss had reached our lips, And covered up our names.

Drunkards of summer are quite as frequent as Drunkards of wine.

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

Unable are the Loved to die For Love is Immortality, Nay, it is Deity - Unable they that love - to die For Love reforms Vitality Into Divinity.

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