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O my Luve is like a red, red rose That’s newly sprung in June.

A narrow Fellow in the Grass Occasionally rides -

Hope is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by.

Fog comes on little cat feet.

Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.

But all the clocks in the city Began to whirr and chime: 'O let not Time deceive you, You cannot conquer Time.'

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

The world is but a canvas to our imagination.

The stars are the street lights of eternity.

The Mind is an Enchanted Thing - like the glaze on a katydid-wing

My love is like to ice, and I to fire:

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

His soul sat tight in its husk, as a kernel in a hard, green fruit.