Exultation is the going Of an inland soul to sea Past the houses, past the headlands Into deep eternity! Bred as we, among the mountains Can the sailor understand The divine intoxication Of the first league out from land?

Friends are nations in themselves.

You cannot put a fire out! A thing that can ignite can go itself- without a flame- E'en through the darkest night!

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

A power of Butterfly must be - The Aptitude to fly Meadows of Majesty concedes And easy Sweeps of Sky -

The Crime, from us, is hidden, [though] he is presumed to know.

Apparently with no surprise To any happy Flower The Frost beheads it at its play -- In accidental power -- The blonde Assassin passes on -- The Sun proceeds unmoved To measure off another Day For an Approving God.