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.

Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn
Indicative that suns go down;
The notice to the startled grass
That darkness is about to pass.

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 chilliest land And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.