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

I held a jewel in my fingers And went to sleep. The day was warm, and winds were prosy; I said: "'T will keep." I woke and chid my honest fingers,— The gem was gone; And now an amethyst remembrance Is all I own.

Speech is one symptom of affection; and silence one; the perfect communication is heard of none.

I know nothing in the world that has as much power as a word. Sometimes I write one, and I look at it, until it begins to shine.

Wonder is not precisely knowing.

Expectation is contentment - Gain satiety.

We do not play on Graves— Because there isn't Room— Besides—it isn't even—it slants And People come— And put a Flower on it— And hang their faces so— We're fearing that their Hearts will drop— And crush our pretty play— And so we move as far As Enemies—away— Just looking round to see how far It is—Occasionally—