I . . . am small, like the wren, and my hair is bold like the chestnut burr; and my eyes like the sherry in the glass that the guest leaves.

This is my letter to the world That never wrote to me

There's a certain slant of light, On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes.

Witchcraft was hung, in History, But History and I Find all the Witchcraft that we need Around us, every Day -

Faith is a fine invention When gentlemen can see, But microscopes are prudent In an emergency.

in this short life that only lasts ah hour how much-how little-is within our power.

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