My friends are my "estate." Forgive me then the avarice to hoard them. - Emily Dickinson

Till it has loved, no man or woman can become itself.

Remember and care for me sometimes, and scatter a fragrant flower in this wilderness life of mine by writing me.

She dealt her pretty words like blades — how glittering they shone — and every one unbared a nerve
or wantoned with a bone — She never deemed — she hurt — that — is not steel’s affair — a vulgar grimace in the flesh — how ill the creatures bear — To ache is human — not polite — the film upon the eye
mortality’s old custom — just locking up — to die.