She died--this was the way she died; And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun. Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side.

Till I loved I never lived.

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

That no Flake of [snow] fall on you or them - is a wish that would be a Prayer, were Emily not a Pagan.

Heart, we will forget him! You and I, to-night! You may forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light. When you have done, pray tell me, That I my thoughts may dim; Haste! lest while you’re lagging, I may remember him!

I don't profess to be profound; but I do lay claim to common sense.

The things of which we want the proof are those we know the best.