We do not play on Graves— Because there isn't Room— Besides—it isn't even—it slants And People come— And put a Flower on it— And hang their faces so— We're fearing that their Hearts will drop— And crush our pretty play— And so we move as far As Enemies—away— Just looking round to see how far It is—Occasionally—

The brain is wider than the sky, For, put them side by side, The one the other will include With ease, and you beside.

I am out with lanterns, looking for myself.

Love can do all but raise the Dead.

The Heart wants what it wants - or else it does not care

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.

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is To meet an antique book In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think, His venerable hand to take, And warming in our own, A passage back, or two, to make To times when he was young. His quaint opinions to inspect, His knowledge to unfold On what concerns our mutual mind, The literature of old.