The Best Fluffy Pancakes recipe you will fall in love with. Full of tips and tricks to help you make the best pancakes.
Of Tolling Bell I ask the cause? “A Soul has gone to Heaven” I’m answered in a lonesome tone— Is Heaven then a Prison? That Bells should ring till all should know A Soul had gone to Heaven Would seem…
Of Silken Speech and Specious Shoe A Traitor is the Bee His service to the newest Grace Present continually His Suit a chance His Troth a Term Protracted as the Breeze Continual Ban propoundeth He Continual Divorce.
Of nearness to her sundered Things The Soul has special times— When Dimness—looks the Oddity— Distinctness—easy—seems— The Shapes we buried, dwell about, Familiar, in the Rooms— Untarnished by the Sepulchre, The Mouldering Playmate comes— In just the Jacket that he…
Of Course—I prayed— And did God Care? He cared as much as on the Air A Bird—had stamped her foot— And cried “Give Me”— My Reason—Life— I had not had—but for Yourself— ‘Twere better Charity To leave me in the…
Of Consciousness, her awful Mate The Soul cannot be rid— As easy the secreting her Behind the Eyes of God. The deepest hid is sighted first And scant to Him the Crowd— What triple Lenses burn upon The Escapade from…
Of Brussels—it was not— Of Kidderminster? Nay— The Winds did buy it of the Woods— They—sold it unto me It was a gentle price— The poorest—could afford— It was within the frugal purse Of Beggar—or of Bird— Of small and…
Of Bronze—and Blaze— The North—Tonight— So adequate—it forms— So preconcerted with itself— So distant—to alarms— And Unconcern so sovereign To Universe, or me— Infects my simple spirit With Taints of Majesty— Till I take vaster attitudes— And strut upon my…
Of Being is a Bird The likest to the Down An Easy Breeze do put afloat The General Heavens—upon— It soars—and shifts—and whirls— And measures with the Clouds In easy—even—dazzling pace— No different the Birds— Except a Wake of Music…
Of all the Sounds despatched abroad, There’s not a Charge to me Like that old measure in the Boughs— That phraseless Melody— The Wind does—working like a Hand, Whose fingers Comb the Sky— Then quiver down—with tufts of Tune— Permitted…
Of all the souls that stand create I have elected one. When sense from spirit files away, And subterfuge is done; When that which is and that which was Apart, intrinsic, stand, And this brief tragedy of flesh Is shifted…
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