Hope Is The Thing With Feathers That

Forever Is Composed Of Nows— 'tis Not A Different Time— Except For Infiniteness— And Latitude Of Home

They Address An Eclipse Every Morning, Whom They Call Their "father."

I Don't Profess To Be Profound; But I Do Lay Claim To Common Sense.

Life Is So Rotatory That The Wilderness Falls To Each, Sometime.

Inebriate Of Air Am I, And Debauchee Of Dew, Reeling, Through Endless Summer Days, From Inns Of Molten Blue.