Fame is a bee.It has a song -It has a sting -Ah, too, it has a wing.

The Babies we were are buried, and their shadows are plodding on.

I sing to use the waiting, My bonnet but to tie, And shut the door unto my house; No more to do have I, Till, his best step approaching, We journey to the day, And tell each other how we sang To keep the dark away.

The mere sense of living is joy enough.

To be alive──is Power.

A letter always seemed to me like immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.