Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.

I think Heaven will not be as good as earth, unless it bring with it that sweet power to remember, which is the staple of Heaven here.

I miss the grasshoppers much, but suppose it is all for the best. I should become too much attached to a trotting world.

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

The power to console is not within corporeal reach - though its attempt is precious.

Some keep the Sabbath going to church, I keep it staying at home, with a bobolink for a chorister, and an orchard for a dome.

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