My love for those I love -- not many -- not very many, but don't I love them so?

Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.

I wonder if it hurts to live, And if they have to try, And whether, could they choose between, They would not rather die.

At least to pray is left - is left Oh Jesus - in the Air - I know not which thy chamber is - I'm knocking everywhere.

Forever is made up of nows.

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.

How do most people live without any thought? There are many people in the world,--you must have noticed them in the street,--how do they live? How do they get strength to put on their clothes in the morning?