Hope is a thing with feathers
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.
Had we less to say to those we love, perhaps we should say it oftener.
The Truth must dazzle gradually or every man be blind.
I work to drive the awe away, yet awe impels the work.
Sunrise: day's great progenitor.