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

Love is like the wild rose-briar; Friendship like the holly-tree. The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, But which will bloom most constantly? The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring ,Its summer blossoms scent the air; Yet wait till winter comes again, And who will call the wild-briar fair? Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now, And deck thee with holly's sheen, That, when December blights thy brow, He still may leave thy garland green.

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

Wild Nights – Wild Nights! Were I with thee Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile – the winds – To a heart in port – Done with the compass – Done with the chart! Rowing in Eden – Ah, the sea! Might I moor – Tonight – In thee!

The things of which we want the proof are those we know the best.

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

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