Longing Is Like A Seed That Wrestles

My Friends Are My Estate. Forgive Me Then The Avarice To Hoard Them. They Tell Me Those Who Were Poor Early Have Different Views Of Gold. I Don't Know How That Is. God Is Not So Wary As We, Else He Would Give Us No Friends, Lest We Forget Him.

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.

The Soul Selects Her Own Society, Then Shuts The Door; On Her Divine Majority Obtrude No More.

No Life Can Pompless Pass Away - The Lowliest Career To The Same Pageant Wends Its Way As That Exalted Here -

I Would Like More Sisters, That The Taking Out Of One, Might Not Leave Such Stillness.