Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tune without the words - and never stops at all.
Forever is composed of nows.
Love is done when Loves begun, Sages say, But have Sages known?
It is also November. The noons are more laconic and the sunsets sterner, and Gibraltar lights make the village foreign. November always seemed to me the Norway of the year. – – is still with the sister who put her child in an ice nest last Monday forenoon. The redoubtable God! I notice where Death has been introduced, he frequently calls, making it desirable to forestall his advances.
I think of love, and you, and my heart grows full and warm, and my breath stands still.
Oh my darling one, how long you wander from me, how weary I grow of waiting and looking, and calling for you; sometimes I shut my eyes, and shut my heart towards you, and try hard to forget you because you grieve me so, but you’ll never go away, oh you never will.
I would have drowned twice to save you sinking, dear.
We grow accustomed to the dark when light is put away –.
The days will have more hours while you are gone away.
Your absence insanes me so – I do not feel so peaceful, when you are gone from me.
Have you got a brook in your little heart, Where bashful flowers blow, And blushing birds go down to drink, And shadows tremble so?
I miss you, mourn for you, and walk the streets alone- often at night, beside, I fall asleep in tears, for your dear face, yet not one word comes back to me. If it is finished, tell me, and I will raise the lid to my box of Phantoms, and lay one more love in; but if it lives and beats still, still lives and beats for me, then say so, and I will strike the strings to one more strain of happiness before I die.
The career of flowers differs from ours only in inaudibleness. I feel more reverence as I grow for these mute creatures whose suspense or transport may surpass my own.
How vain it seems to write, when one knows how to feel – how much more near and dear to sit beside you, talk with you, hear the tones of your voice... Give me strength, Susie, write me of hope and love, and of hearts that endure...
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.
I need you more and more, and the great world grows wider, and dear ones fewer and fewer, every day that you stay away –.
Love not me for comely grace, For my pleasing eye or face; Nor for any outward part, No, nor for my constant heart: For those may fail or turn to ill, So thou and I shall sever. Keep therefore a true woman’s eye, And love me still, but know not why; So hast thou the same reason still To doat upon me ever.
The small heart cannot break. The ecstasy of its penalty solaces the large.
I only know that when you shall come back again, the Earth will seem more beautiful, and bigger than it does now, and the blue sky from the window will be all dotted with gold – though it may not be evening, or time for the stars to come.
I am glad you have an hour for books, those enthralling friends, the immortalities...