Bring me the sunset in a cup.

Love — thou art deep —

I cannot cross thee —

But, were there Two

Instead of One —

Rower and Yacht — some sov'reign Summer —

Who knows — but we'd reach the Sun?

The distance that the dead have gone

Does not at first appear;

Their coming back seems possible

For many an ardent year.

And then, that we have followed them

We more than half suspect,

So intimate have we become

With their dear retrospect.

Life is a spell so exquisite that everything conspires to break it.

Forever is composed of Nows—

'Tis not a different time—

Except for Infiniteness—

And Latitude of Home—

Upon his saddle sprung a bird

And crossed a thousand trees

Before a fence without a fare

His fantasy did please

And then he lifted up his throat

And squandered such a note

A Universe that overheard

Is stricken by it yet—

Who has not found the heaven below

Will fail of it above.

God's residence is next to mine,

His furniture is love.

[Dogs] are better than human beings because they know but do not tell.

Some days retired from the rest

In soft distinction lie,

The Day that a companion came—

Or was obliged to die.

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

Even the possible has its insoluble particle.

The sweets of pillage can be known

To no one but the thief,

Compassion for integrity

Is his divinest grief.

One need not be a chamber to be haunted.

While I was fearing it, it came,

But came with less of fear,

Because that fearing it so long

Had almost made it dear.

Like men and women shadows walk

Upon the hills today,

With here and there a mighty bow,

Or trailing courtesy

To neighbors, doubtless, of their own;

Not quickened to perceive

Minuter landscapes, as ourselves,

And Boroughs where we live.

IMMORTAL is an ample word

When what we need is by,

But when it leaves us for a time,

'Tis a necessity.

Truth is such a rare thing, it is delightful to tell it.

How still the bells in steeples stand,

Till, swollen with the sky,

They leap upon their silver feet

In frantic melody!

A shady friend for torrid days

Is easier to find

Than one of higher temperature

For frigid hour of mind.

Success is counted sweetest

By those who ne'er succeed.

To comprehend a nectar

Requires a sorest need.

No rack can torture me,

My soul's at liberty.

Behind this mortal bone

There knits a bolder one.

Because I could not stop for Death —

He kindly stopped for me —

The Carriage held but just Ourselves —

And Immortality.

The pedigree of honey

Does not concern the bee;

A clover, any time, to him

Is aristocracy.

His Labor is a Chant --

His Idleness a Tune --

Oh, for a Bee's experience

Of Clovers, and of Noon!

A death-blow is a life-blow to some

Who, till they died, did not alive become;

Who, had they lived, had died, but when

They died, vitality begun.