Love is its own rescue; for we, at our supremest, are but its trembling emblems.

Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chilliest land And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.

Experiment has a stimulus which withers its fear.

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.

One need not be a chamber to be haunted; One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing Material place.

To be alive──is Power.

The hearts that never lean must fall.