I cannot live with you.
|
Pain has an element of blank—
|
I dwell in possibility...
|
Becuase I could not stop for Death He kindly stopped for me The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality
|
They say that God is everywhere, and yet we always think of Him as somewhat of a recluse.
|
Retreat was out of hope,— Behind, a sealed route, Eternity's white flag before, And God at every gate.
|
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.
|
If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry
|
My Life had stood—a Loaded Gun— In Corners—till a Day The Owner passed—identified— And carried Me away—
|
Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those we have personality and emotion know what it means to want to escape from these things.
|
I hope you love birds too. It is economical. It saves going to heaven.
|
Because I could not stop for Death -- He kindly stopped for me -- The carriage held but just ourselvesAnd immortality.
|
Anger as soon as fed is dead. 'Tis starving makes it fat
|
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the words without the tune, and never stops at all.
|
I dwell in possiblities.
|
We turn not older with years, but newer every day.
|
A little Madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King.
|
Anger as soon as fed is dead- 'Tis starving makes it fat.
|
Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul. And sings the tune Without the words, and never stops at all.
|
Hope is a thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without words And never stops at all.
|
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all
|
He ate and drank the precious Words, his Spirit grew robust; He knew no more that he was poor, nor that his frame was Dust.
|
How the old mountains drip with sunset, And the brake of dun! How the hemlocks are tipped in tinsel By the wizard sun! How the old steeples hand the scarlet, Till the ball is full, -- Have I the lip of the flamingo That I dare to tell? Then, how the fire ebbs like billows, Touching all the grass With a departing, sapphire feature, As if a duchess pass! How a small dusk crawls on the village Till the houses blot; And the odd flambeaux no men carry Glimmer on the spot! Now it is night in nest and kennel, And where was the wood, Just a dome of abyss is nodding Into solitude! -- These are the visions baffled Guido; Titian never told; Domenichino dropped the pencil, Powerless to unfold.
|
Success is counted sweetest by those who ne'er succeed
|
Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate
|
Success is counted sweetest by those who ne'er succeed.
|
Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul. And sings the tune Without the words, and never stops at all.
|
...the fog is rising.
|
Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.
|
This is the Hour of Lead -- Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow -- First --Chill --then Stupor --then the letting go --.
|