Are nothing to the bee; His separation from his rose To him seems misery. - 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.

Good Morning — Midnight — I'm coming Home — Day — got tired of Me — How could I — of Him?

Sunshine was a sweet place — I liked to stay — But Morn — didn't want me — now — So — Goodnight — Day!

I can look — can't I — When the East is Red?
The Hills — have a way — then — That puts the Heart — abroad — You — are not so fair — Midnight — I chose — Day — But — please take a little Girl — He turned away!

A letter always feels to me like Immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.