Find ecstasy in life; the mere sense of living is joy enough. - Emily Dickinson

"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 —

Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.

If your Nerve, deny you — Go above your Nerve — He can lean against the Grave,
If he fear to swerve — That's a steady posture — Never any bend
Held of those Brass arms — Best Giant made — If your Soul seesaw — Lift the Flesh door — The Poltroon wants Oxygen — Nothing more —