Memory Is A Strange Bell—jubilee, And Knell.

When Everything That Ticked Has Stopped, And Space Stares, All Around, Or Grisly Frosts, First Autumn Morns, Repeal The Beating Ground.

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers That Perches In The Soul - And Sings The Tunes Without The Words - And Never Stops At All.

I Felt It Shelter To Speak To You.

I'll Tell You How The Sun Rose, A Ribbon At A Time. The Steeples Swam In Amethyst, The News Like Squirrels Ran. The Hills Untied Their Bonnets, The Bobolinks Begun. Then I Said Softly To Myself, "that Must Have Been The Sun!

I Cannot Help Esteem The 'bird Within The Hand' Superior To The One The 'bush' May Yield Me Or May Not Too Late To Choose Again