Those who have not found the heaven below, will fail of it above.

Faith is a fine invention When gentlemen can see, But microscopes are prudent In an emergency.

These are the days when birds come back, a very few, a Bird or two, to take a backward look.

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.

Love is its own rescue; for we, at our supremest, are but its trembling emblems.

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

The Soul selects her own Society.