Mirth Is The Mail Of Anguish --

Much Madness Is Divinest Sense, To A Discerning Eye.

The Morns Are Meeker Than They Were, The Nuts Are Getting Brown; The Berry's Cheek Is Plumper, The Rose Is Out Of Town. The Maple Wears A Gayer Scarf, The Field A Scarlet Gown. Lest I Should Be Old-fashioned, I'll Put A Trinket On.

Immortal Is An Ample Word When What We Need Is By, But When It Leaves Us For A Time, 'tis A Necessity.

And Then--a Day As Huge As Yesterdays In Pairs, Unrolled Its Horror In My Face-- Until It Blocked My Eyes

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers That Perches In The Soul, And Sings The Tune Without The Words, And Never Stops At All, And Sweetest In The Gale Is Heard; And Sore Must Be The Storm That Could Abash The Little Bird That Kept So Many Warm. I've Heard It In The Chilliest Land And On The Strangest Sea; Yet, Never, In Extremity, It Asked A Crumb Of Me.