The poet lights the light and fades away. But the light goes on and on.
I dwell in possibilities... a fairer house than prose.
I hope your rambles have been sweet, and your reveries spacious
To see the Summer Sky Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lieโ True Poems fleeโ
I wonder if it hurts to live, And if they have to try, And whether, could they choose between, They would not rather die.
I . . . am small, like the wren, and my hair is bold like the chestnut burr; and my eyes like the sherry in the glass that the guest leaves.