Soul selects her own society, The

After great pain, a formal feeling comes

Hope is the thing with feathers

I never hear the word “escape"

There is no frigate like a book

Because I could not stop for Death

Of all the sounds despatched abroad

Success is counted sweetest

If I can stop one heart from breaking

To fight aloud is very brave

Pain has an element of blank

I can wade grief

For each ecstatic instant

I meant to have but modest needs

Thought went up my mind to-day, A

Is Heaven a physician?

Poor torn heart, a tattered heart, A

I should have been too glad

Each life converges to some centre

My life closed twice before its close