The Soul Selects Her Own Society.

So Proud She Was To Die It Made Us All Ashamed That What We Cherished, So Unknown To Her Desire Seemed. So Satisfied To Go Where None Of Us Should Be, Immediately, That Anguish Stooped Almost To Jealousy.

My Love For Those I Love -- Not Many -- Not Very Many, But Don't I Love Them So?

I Could Not Stop For Death And He Did Not Stop For Me.

The Power To Console Is Not Within Corporeal Reach - Though Its Attempt Is Precious.

Memory Is A Strange Bell—jubilee, And Knell.