Love can do all but raise the Dead.

Experiment has a stimulus which withers its fear.

The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee.

Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.

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

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

I felt it shelter to speak to you.