Not To Discover Weakness Is The Artifice

I Think Of Love, And You, And My Heart Grows Full And Warm, And My Breath Stands Still... I Can Feel A Sunshine Stealing Into My Soul And Making It All Summer, And Every Thorn, A Rose.

Longing, It May Be, Is The Gift No Other Gift Supplies.

The Soul Should Always Stand Ajar, That If The Heaven Inquire, He Will Not Be Obliged To Wait, Or Shy Of Troubling Her. Depart, Before The Host Has Slid The Bolt Upon The Door, To Seek For The Accomplished Guest, -- Her Visitor No More.

Not If Their Party Were Waiting, Not If To Talk With Me Were To Them Now, Homesickness After Eternity.

I See Thee Better In The Dark, I Do Not Need A Light. The Love Of Thee A Prism Be Excelling Violet. I See Thee Better For The Years That Hunch Themselves Between, The Miner’s Lamp Sufficient Be To Nullify The Mine. And In The Grave I See Thee Best— Its Little Panels Be A-glow, All Ruddy With The Light I Held So High For Thee! What Need Of Day To Those Whose Dark Hath So Surpassing Sun, It Seem It Be Continually At The Meridian?