The Best Fluffy Pancakes recipe you will fall in love with. Full of tips and tricks to help you make the best pancakes.
We turn not older with years, but newer every day.
It bloomed and dropt, a Single Noon— The Flower—distinct and Red— I, passing, thought another Noon Another in its stead Will equal glow, and thought no More But came another Day To find the Species disappeared— The Same Locality— The…
Is it true, dear Sue? Are there two? I shouldn’t like to come For fear of joggling Him! If I could shut him up In a Coffee Cup, Or tie him to a pin Till I got in— Or make…
Is it dead—Find it— Out of sound—Out of sight— “Happy”? Which is wiser— You, or the Wind? “Conscious”? Won’t you ask that— Of the low Ground? “Homesick”? Many met it— Even through them—This Cannot testify— Themself—as dumb—
Is Bliss then, such Abyss, I must not put my foot amiss For fear I spoil my shoe? I’d rather suit my foot Than save my Boot— For yet to buy another Pair Is possible, At any store— But Bliss,…
Inconceivably solemn! Things go gay Pierce—by the very Press Of Imagery— Their far Parades—order on the eye With a mute Pomp— A pleading Pageantry— Flags, are a brave sight— But no true Eye Ever went by One— Steadily— Music’s triumphant—…
In Winter in my Room I came upon a Worm— Pink, lank and warm— But as he was a worm And worms presume Not quite with him at home— Secured him by a string To something neighboring And went along.…
In rags mysterious as these The shining Courtiers go— Veiling the purple, and the plumes— Veiling the ermine so. Smiling, as they request an alms— At some imposing door! Smiling when we walk barefoot Upon their golden floor!
In lands I never saw—they say Immortal Alps look down— Whose Bonnets touch the firmament— Whose Sandals touch the town— Meek at whose everlasting feet A Myriad Daisy play— Which, Sir, are you and which am I Upon an August…
In falling Timbers buried— There breathed a Man— Outside—the spades—were plying— The Lungs—within— Could He—know—they sought Him— Could They—know—He breathed— Horrid Sand Partition— Neither—could be heard— Never slacked the Diggers— But when Spades had done— Oh, Reward of Anguish, It…
In Ebon Box, when years have flownTo reverently peer,Wiping away the velvet dustSummers have sprinkled there! To hold a letter to the light—Grown Tawny now, with time—To con the faded syllablesThat quickened us like Wine! Perhaps a Flower’s shrivelled checkAmong…