It is true that the unknown is the largest need of the intellect, though for it, no one thinks to thank God.

I see thee better in the dark I do not need a light.

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.

The soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more.

We both believe, and disbelieve a hundred times an hour, which keeps believing nimble.

How happy is the little stone That rambles in the road alone, And doesn't care about careers, And exigencies never fears; Whose coat of elemental brown A passing universe put on; And independent as the sun, Associates or glows alone, Fulfilling absolute decree In casual simplicity.

She died--this was the way she died; And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun. Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side.