The Best Fluffy Pancakes recipe you will fall in love with. Full of tips and tricks to help you make the best pancakes.
It would have starved a Gnat— To live so small as I— And yet I was a living Child— With Food’s necessity Upon me—like a Claw— I could no more remove Than I could coax a Leech away— Or make…
It will be Summer—eventually. Ladies—with parasols— Sauntering Gentlemen—with Canes— And little Girls—with Dolls— Will tint the pallid landscape— As ’twere a bright Bouquet— Thro’ drifted deep, in Parian— The Village lies—today— The Lilacs—bending many a year— Will sway with purple…
It was too late for Man— But early, yet, for God— Creation—impotent to help— But Prayer—remained—Our Side— How excellent the Heaven— When Earth—cannot be had— How hospitable—then—the face Of our Old Neighbor—God—
It was given to me by the Gods— When I was a little Girl— They given us Presents most—you know— When we are new—and small. I kept it in my Hand— I never put it down— I did not dare…
It was a Grave, yet bore no Stone Enclosed ’twas not of Rail A Consciousness its Acre, and It held a Human Soul. Entombed by whom, for what offence If Home or Foreign born— Had I the curiosity ‘Twere not…
It troubled me as once I was— For I was once a Child— Concluding how an Atom—fell— And yet the Heavens—held— The Heavens weighed the most—by far— Yet Blue—and solid—stood— Without a Bolt—that I could prove— Would Giants—understand? Life set…
It tossed—and tossed— A little Brig I knew—o’ertook by Blast— It spun—and spun— And groped delirious, for Morn— It slipped—and slipped— As One that drunken—stept— Its white foot tripped— Then dropped from sight— Ah, Brig—Good Night To Crew and You—…
It struck me—every Day— The Lightning was as new As if the Cloud that instant slit And let the Fire through— It burned Me—in the Night— It Blistered to My Dream— It sickened fresh upon my sight— With every Morn…
It might be lonelier Without the Loneliness— I’m so accustomed to my Fate— Perhaps the Other—Peace— Would interrupt the Dark— And crowd the little Room— Too scant—by Cubits—to contain The Sacrament—of Him— I am not used to Hope— It might…
It makes no difference abroad— The Seasons—fit—the same— The Mornings blossom into Noons— And split their Pods of Flame— Wild flowers—kindle in the Woods— The Brooks slam—all the Day— No Black bird bates his Banjo— For passing Calvary— Auto da…