To die before one fears to die may be a boon.

To see the Summer Sky Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie— True Poems flee—

Affection is like bread, unnoticed till we starve, and then we dream of it, and sing of it, and paint it, when every urchin in the street has more than he can eat.

Bring me the sunset in a cup.

Nothing more do I ask than to share with you the ecstasy and sacrament of my life.

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

The Soul selects her own Society.