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

She dealt her pretty words like Blades -- How glittering they shone -- And every One unbared a Nerve Or wantoned with a Bone -- She never deemed -- she hurt -- That -- is not Steel's Affair -- A vulgar grimace in the Flesh -- How ill the Creatures bear -- To Ache is human -- not polite -- The Film upon the eye Mortality's old Custom -- Just locking up -- to Die.

The sun just touched the morning; The morning, happy thing, Supposed that he had come to dwell, And life would be all spring.

To multiply the harbors does not reduce the sea.

We never know how high we are till we are called to rise. Then if we are true to form our statures touch the skies.

in this short life that only lasts ah hour how much-how little-is within our power.

How lucious lies the pea within the pod.