It is finished, is never said of us
Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind-Thy windy will to bear!
The soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more.
To travel far, there is no better ship than a book.
The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee.
I would like more sisters, that the taking out of one, might not leave such stillness.