Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chilliest land And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.

God's little Blond Blessing we have long deemed you, and hope his so-called Will will not compel him to revoke you.

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

The appetite for silence is seldom an acquired taste.

Experiment has a stimulus which withers its fear.

The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy.

I felt it shelter to speak to you.