Memory Is A Strange Bell—jubilee, And Knell.

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

Affection Is Like Bread, Unnoticed Till We Starve, And Then We Dream Of It, And Sing Of It, And Paint It, When Every Urchin In The Street Has More Than He Can Eat.

Spring Is The Period Express From God.

In This Short Life That Only Lasts Ah Hour How Much-how Little-is Within Our Power.

Unto A Broken Heart No Other One May Go Without The High Prerogative Itself Hath Suffered Too.