Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now,
Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice.
I do not love you except because I love you; I go from loving to not loving you,
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
'Hope' is the thing with feathers— That perches in the soul—
Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
we had goldfish and they circled around and around in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there. I do not sleep.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.
Don't go far off, not even for a day, because -- because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land;
You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies,
Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now,
Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice.
I do not love you except because I love you; I go from loving to not loving you,
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
'Hope' is the thing with feathers— That perches in the soul—
Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
we had goldfish and they circled around and around in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there. I do not sleep.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.
Don't go far off, not even for a day, because -- because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land;
You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies,