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.

In the name of the bee And of the butterfly And of the breeze, amen!

Mine Enemy is growing old -- I have at last Revenge -- The Palate of the Hate departs -- If any would avenge Let him be quick -- the Viand flits -- It is a faded Meat -- Anger as soon as fed is dead -- 'Tis starving makes it fat

But a Book is only the Heart's Portrait- every Page a Pulse.

Bring me the sunset in a cup.

I see thee better in the dark I do not need a light.

Knew I how to pray, to intercede for your [broken] Foot were intuitive - but I am but a Pagan.