They say that Time assuages -- Time never did assuage -- An actual suffering strengthens As Sinews do, with age -- Time is a Test of Trouble -- But not a Remedy -- If such it prove, it prove too There was no Malady.

The Past is such a curious Creature To look her in the Face A Transport may receipt us Or a Disgrace.

His Labor is a Chant -- His Idleness -a Tune -- Oh, for a Bee's experience Of Clovers, and of Noon!

How softly summer shuts, without the creaking of a door.

The older I grow the more do I love spring and spring flowers. Is it so with you?

I think of love, and you, and my heart grows full and warm, and my breath stands still... I can feel a sunshine stealing into my soul and making it all summer, and every thorn, a rose.

I stepped from plank to plank So slow and cautiously; The stars about my head I felt, About my feet the sea. I knew not but the next Would be my final inch,-- This gave me that precarious gait Some call experience.

We outgrow love like other things and put it in a drawer, till it an antique fashion shows like costumes grandsires wore.

Heaven is so far of the mind that were the mind dissolved -- the site of it by architect could not again be proved.

Heart, we will forget him! You and I, to-night! You may forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light. When you have done, pray tell me, That I my thoughts may dim; Haste! lest while you're lagging, I may remember him!

I fear a Man of frugal speech -- I fear a Silent Man -- Haranguer -- I can overtake -- Or Babbler -- entertain -- But He who weigheth -- While the Rest -- Expend their furthest pound -- Of this Man -- I am wary -- I fear that He is Grand .

I ... am small, like the wren, and my hair is bold like the chestnut burr; and my eyes like the sherry in the glass that the guest leaves.

The Spider as an Artist Has never been employed- Though his surpassing Merit Is freely certified.

That no Flake of snow fall on you or them -- is a wish that would be a Prayer, were Emily not a Pagan.

This is my letter to the world
That never wrote to me.

Longing, it may be, is the gift no other gift supplies.

I lost a world the other day. Has anybody found? You'll know it by the rows of stars around it's forehead bound. A rich man might not notice it; yet to my frugal eye of more esteem than ducats. Oh! Find it, sir, for me!

A charm invests a face
Imperfectly beheld,--
The lady dare not lift her veil
For fear it be dispelled.
But peers beyond her mesh,
And wishes, and denies,--
Lest interview annul a want
That image satisfies.

Dreams are the subtle dower that make us rich an hour. Then fling us poor out of the purple door. Into the precinct raw possessed before.

I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, Eyes;
I wonder if It weighs like Mine,
Or has an Easier size.