The Spreading Wide My Narrow Hands /

How Lucious Lies The Pea Within The Pod.

The Soul Unto Itself Is An Imperial Friend, - Or The Most Agonizing Spy - An Enemy - Could Send -

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 Vastest Earthly Day Is Shrunken Small By One Defaulting Face Behind A Pall.

I Had No Monarch In My Life, And Cannot Rule Myself; And When I Try To Organize, My Little Force Explodes And Leaves Me Bare And Charred.