Prayer Is The Little Implement Through Which

My Only Sketch, Profile, Of Heaven Is A Large Blue Sky, And Larger Than The Biggest I Have Seen In June - And In It Are My Friends - Every One Of Them.

Old Age Comes On Suddenly, And Not Gradually As Is Thought.

Tell All The Truth But Tell It Slant-- Success In Circuit Lies Too Bright For Our Infirm Delight The Truth's Superb Surprise As Lightning To The Children Eased With Explanation Kind The Truth Must Dazzle Gradually Or Every Man Be Blind--

The Possible's Slow Fuse Is Lit By The Imagination.

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.