If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain.

Morning without you is a dwindled dawn.

Heart, we will forget him,You and I, tonight!You must forget the warmth he gave,I will forget the light.

The Heart wants what it wants, or else it does not care.

Till I loved I never lived.

That I shall love always, I argue theethat love is life,and life hath immortality

We outgrow love like other things and put it in a drawer, till it an antique fashion shows like costumes grandsires wore.

That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.

Find ecstasy in life; the mere sense of living is joy enough.

Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tune without the words And never stops at all.

To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.

The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.

A Word is DeadA word is deadWhen it is said,Some say. I say it justBegins to liveThat day.

One need not be a chamber to be haunted.

A wounded dear leaps the highest

The sun just touched the morning; The morning, happy thing, Supposed that he had come to dwell, And life would be all spring.

There's a certain slant of light,On winter afternoons,That oppresses, like the weightOf cathedral tunes.

One need not be a Chamber — to be Haunted — One need not be a House — The Brain has Corridors — surpassing Material Place —

I felt a Cleaving in my Mind—As if my Brain had split—I tried to match it—Seam by Seam—But could not make it fit.

Inebriate of Air — am I —And Debauchee of Dew —Reeling — thro endless summer days —From Inns of Molten Blue —

Success is counted sweetest By those who ne’er succeed. To comprehend a nectar Requires sorest need.

Tell all the truth but tell it slant.

This is the Hour of Lead – Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow – First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –

A precious, mouldering pleasure ’t is To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think.

Sweet hour, blessed hour, to carry me to you, and to bring you back to me, long enough to snatch one kiss, and whisper goodbye again.

To see the Summer SkyIs Poetry, though never in a Book it lie—True Poems flee—

We never know we go,—when we are going We jest and shut the door; Fate following behind us bolts it, And we accost no more.

Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawnIndicative that suns go down;The notice to the startled grassThat darkness is about to pass.

In a serener Bright, In a more golden light I see Each little doubt and fear, Each little discord here Removed.

Not with a club, the Heart is brokenNor with a Stone –A Whip so small you could not see itI've known

Much Madness is Divinest Sense, to a Discerning Eye....

If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.

I wonder if it hurts to live,And if they have to try,And whether, could they choose between,They would not rather die.

Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need of hell.

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,One clover, and a bee,And revery.The revery alone will do,If bees are few.

A great hope fellYou heard no noiseThe ruin was within.

Faith is a fine inventionWhen gentlemen can see,But microscopes are prudentIn an emergency.

Unable are the Loved to die / For Love is Immortality, / Nay, it is Deity — / Unable they that love — to die / For Love reforms Vitality / Into Divinity

Success is counted sweetest by those ne'er succeed.

Look back on Time, with kindly eyes -He doubtless did his best -How softly sinks that trembling sunIn Human Nature's West -