“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul – and sings the tunes without the words – and never stops at all.”

We both believe, and disbelieve a hundred times an hour, which keeps believing nimble.

Hope never stops at all.

The soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more.

You left me boundaries of pain Capacious as the sea, Between eternity and time, Your consciousness and me.

The brain is wider than the sky.

You can stay young as long as you learn.

Forever – is composed of Nows – ‘Tis not a different time. Let Months dissolve in further Months – And Years – exhale in Years.

The poet lights the light and fades away. But the light goes on and on.

You don’t have to be a house to be haunted.

There’s a certain slant of light, On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes.

Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.

Wonder is not precisely knowing.

The sailor cannot see the north / but knows the needle can.

The things of which we want the proof are those we know the best.

Opinion is a fitting thing but truth outlasts the sun – if then we cannot own them both, possess the oldest one.

I dwell in possibility.