Sweet Skepticism of the Heart That knows and does not know And tosses like a Fleet of Balm Affronted by the snow.

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege I think.

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

Life is so rotatory that the wilderness falls to each, sometime.

They say that 'home is where the heart is.' I think it is where the house is, and the adjacent buildings.

There is a pain so utter, it swallows being up; The covers the abyss with a trance So memory can step around, across, upon it.

Love is everything. And that's all we know about it.