When a Wanderess has been caged, or perched with her wings clipped, She lives like a Stoic, She lives most heroic, smiling with ruby, moistened lips once her cup of Death is welcome sipped.

Imagination doesn't always make you long for what you cannot have, but rather thrive in what you do not have.

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.

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.

I think sometimes when we find love we pretend it away, or ignore it, or tell ourselves we__e imagining it. Because it is the most painful kind of hope there is.

I measure every Grief I meetWith narrow, probing, eyes __ wonder if It weighs like Mine __r has an Easier size.I wonder if They bore it long __r did it just begin __ could not tell the Date of Mine __t feels so old a pain __ wonder if it hurts to live __nd if They have to try __nd whether _ could They choose between __t would not be _ to die __ note that Some _ gone patient long __t length, renew their smile __n imitation of a LightThat has so little Oil __ wonder if when Years have piled __ome Thousands _ on the Harm __hat hurt them early _ such a lapseCould give them any Balm.