a sick room is at times too sacred a place for a friend's knock, timid as that is.

Wonder is not precisely knowing.

The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy.

These are the days when birds come back, a very few, a Bird or two, to take a backward look.

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 a spell so exquisite that everything conspires to break it.

I held a jewel in my fingers And went to sleep. The day was warm, and winds were prosy; I said: "'T will keep." I woke and chid my honest fingers,— The gem was gone; And now an amethyst remembrance Is all I own.