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.
All I may, if small, Do it not display Larger for the Totalness— ‘Tis Economy To bestow a World And withhold a Star— Utmost, is Munificence— Less, tho’ larger, poor.
All forgot for recollecting Just a paltry One— All forsook, for just a Stranger’s New Accompanying— Grace of Wealth, and Grace of Station Less accounted than An unknown Esteem possessing— Estimate—Who can— Home effaced—Her faces dwindled— Nature—altered small—…
All Circumstances are the Frame In which His Face is set— All Latitudes exist for His Sufficient Continent— The Light His Action, and the Dark The Leisure of His Will— In Him Existence serve or set A Force illegible.
All but Death, can be Adjusted— Dynasties repaired— Systems—settled in their Sockets— Citadels—dissolved— Wastes of Lives—resown with Colors By Succeeding Springs— Death—unto itself—Exception— Is exempt from Change—
Ah, Teneriffe! Retreating Mountain! Purples of Ages—pause for you— Sunset—reviews her Sapphire Regiment— Day—drops you her Red Adieu! Still—Clad in your Mail of ices— Thigh of Granite—and thew—of Steel— Heedless—alike—of pomp—or parting Ah, Teneriffe! I’m kneeling—still—
Ah, Necromancy Sweet! Ah, Wizard erudite! Teach me the skill, That I instill the pain Surgeons assuage in vain, Nor Herb of all the plain Can Heal!
Ah, Moon—and Star! You are very far— But were no one Farther than you— Do you think I’d stop For a Firmament— Or a Cubit—or so? I could borrow a Bonnet Of the Lark— And a Chamois’ Silver Boot—…
Again—his voice is at the door— I feel the old Degree— I hear him ask the servant For such an one—as me— I take a flower—as I go— My face to justify— He never saw me—in this life— I…
After great pain, a formal feeling comes– The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs– The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore, And Yesterday, or Centuries before? The Feet, mechanical, go round– Of Ground, or Air, or Ought– A…
After a hundred years Nobody knows the place,– Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace. Weeds triumphant ranged, Strangers strolled and spelled At the lone orthography Of the elder dead. Winds of summer fields Recollect the way,– Instinct…