My best Acquaintances are those With Whom I spoke no Word

Till it has loved, no man or woman can become itself.

When we think of his lone effort to live and its bleak reward, the mind turns to the myth "for His mercy endureth forever," with confiding revulsion.

The soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more.

There is a pain so utter, it swallows being up; The covers the abyss with a trance So memory can step around, across, upon it.

How frugal is the chariot that bears a human soul.

The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee.