-Some keep the Sabbath going to Church
The Soul Selects her own Society
-I’m nobody, Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too? …
-Of ‘shunning Men and Women’ – they talk of Hallowed things, aloud – and embarrass my Dog – He and I don’t object to them, if they’ll exist their side. I think Carlo would please you – He is dumb, and brave – I think you would like the Chestnut Tree, I met in my walk. It hit my notice suddenly – and I thought the Skies were in Blossom –
-For my companions – the Hills – Sir – and the Sundown – and a Dog – large as myself, that my Father bought me – They are better than Beings – because they know – but do not tell.
-Paradise is no journey because it is within.
-This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me,
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.
Her message is committed,
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me.
We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
Our statures touch the skies.
There is no frigate like a book to take us lands away
Nor any courses like a page of prancing poetry
This traverse may the poorest take without oppress of toil
How frugal is the chariot that bears the human soul!
Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.
The Brain — is wider than the Sky —
For — put them side by side —
The one the other will contain
With ease — and You — beside.
Faith is a fine invention
When gentlemen can see,
But microscopes are prudent
In an emergency.
Hope is a thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without words
And never stops at all.
The right to perish might be thought
An undisputed right —
Attempt it, and the Universe
Upon the opposite
Will concentrate its officers —
You cannot even die
But nature and mankind must pause
To pay you scrutiny.
Love — is anterior to Life —
Posterior — to Death —
Initial of Creation, and
The Exponent of Earth.
A word is dead
When it is said,
I say it just
Begins to live
-Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
-They say that God is everywhere, and yet we always think of Him as somewhat of a recluse.
-That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.
-My friends are my estate.