One need not be a chamber to be haunted.

Drunkards of summer are quite as frequent as Drunkards of wine.

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.

The only Commandment I ever obeyed — 'Consider the Lilies.

I am one of the lingering bad ones, and so do I slink away, and pause, and ponder, and ponder, and pause, and do work without knowing why - not surely for this brief world, and more sure it is not for heaven - and I ask what this message of Christ means.

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.

There is always one thing to be grateful for - that one is one's self and not somebody else.