Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul. And sings the tune Without the words and never stops at all.
Whenever a thing is done for the first time, it releases a little demon.
My river runs to thee: Blue sea, wilt welcome me? My river waits reply. Oh sea, look graciously! I'll fetch thee brooks From spotted nooks, — Say, sea, Take me!
It's a great thing to be "great," Loo, and you and I might tug for a life, and never accomplish it, but no one can stop our looking on, and you know some cannot sing, but the orchard is full of birds, and we all can listen. What if we learn, ourselves, some day!
I hide myself within my flower, That wearing on your breast, You, unsuspecting, wear me too — And angels know the rest.
Look back on time with kindly eyes, He doubtless did his best; How softly sinks his trembling sun In human nature's west!