Until you have loved, you cannot become yourself.

The poet lights the light and fades away. But the light goes on and on.

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 soul should always stand ajar, That if the heaven inquire, He will not be obliged to wait, Or shy of troubling her. Depart, before the host has slid The bolt upon the door, To seek for the accomplished guest, -- Her visitor no more.

There's a certain slant of light, On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes.

Longing, it may be, is the gift no other gift supplies.

Within thy Grave! Oh no, but on some other flight - Thou only camest to mankind To rend it with Good night