I cannot live with you.
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Pain has an element of blank—
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I dwell in possibility...
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Becuase I could not stop for Death He kindly stopped for me The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality
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My Life had stood—a Loaded Gun— In Corners—till a Day The Owner passed—identified— And carried Me away—
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They say that God is everywhere, and yet we always think of Him as somewhat of a recluse.
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Retreat was out of hope,— Behind, a sealed route, Eternity's white flag before, And God at every gate.
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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.
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Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.
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I hope you love birds too. It is economical. It saves going to heaven.
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If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry
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Because I could not stop for Death -- He kindly stopped for me -- The carriage held but just ourselvesAnd immortality.
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We turn not older with years, but newer every day.
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Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the words without the tune, and never stops at all.
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Anger as soon as fed is dead. 'Tis starving makes it fat
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A little Madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King.
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Success is counted sweetest by those who ne'er succeed
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I dwell in possiblities.
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I have dreamed in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind.
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Anger as soon as fed is dead- 'Tis starving makes it fat.
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Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all
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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.
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Hope is a thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without words And never stops at all.
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Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul. And sings the tune Without the words, and never stops at all.
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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.
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I see heaven's glories shine and faith shines equal...
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Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate
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Love is like the wild rose-briar; Friendship like the holly-tree. The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, but which will bloom most constantly?
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Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul. And sings the tune Without the words, and never stops at all.
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Success is counted sweetest by those who ne'er succeed.
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