The distance that the dead have gone/ Does not at first appear --/ Their coming back seems possible/ For many an ardent year.

Anger as soon as fed is dead-
'Tis starving makes it fat.

When it comes, the Landscape listens - Shadows - hold their breath - When it goes, 'tis like the Distance On the look of Death

A word is dead when it is said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day.

Whenever a thing is done for the first time, it releases a little demon.

AFRAID? Of whom am I afraid? Not death; for who is he? The porter of my father’s lodge As much abasheth me.