We turn not older with years but newer every day.

After great pain, a formal feeling comes — The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs — The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore, And Yesterday, or Centuries before? The Feet, mechanical, go round — Of Ground, or Air, or Ought — A Wooden way Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone — This is the Hour of Lead — Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow — First — Chill — then Stupor — then the letting go —

The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,-- The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity

Hope is a thing with feathers

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun - In Corners - till a Day The Owner passed - identified - And carried Me away -

The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy.

Had we less to say to those we love, perhaps we should say it oftener.