Between.

A word is dead

When it said,

Some say.

I say it just begins to live

That day.

Emily Dickinson. 

Chime.

To a Skylark.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!

Bird thou never wert,

That from heaven or near it

Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher

from the earth thou springest,

Like a cloud of fire

The blue deep thou widgets,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine.

I have never heard

Praise of love or wine

That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Waking or asleep,

Thou of death must deem

Things more true and deep

Than we mortals dream,

Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after,

And pine for what is not:

Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught;

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet, if we could scorn

Hate and pride and fear,

If we were things born

Not to shed a tear,

I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound,

Better than all treasures

That in books are found,

Thy skill to poet were, though sorter of ground!

Teach me half the gladness

That thy brain must know;

Such harmonious madness

From my lips would flow,

The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 

 from Shelley's Ode to a Skylark 

Potter.

We shall do so much in the years to come,

But what have we done today?

We shall give our gold in a princely sum,

But what did we give today?

- Nixon Waterman 

Petite.

It is not growing like a tree

         In bulk, doth make men better be;

Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,

To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear:

          A lily of a day

          Is fairer far, in May,

      Although it fall and die that night,

      It was the plant and flower of light.

In small proportions we just beauties see;

And in short measures life may perfect be.

- Ben Jonson