379
Rehearsal to Ourselves
Of a Withdrawn Delight—
Affords a Bliss like Murder—
Omnipotent—Acute—

233
The Lamp burns sure’—within’—
Tho’ Serfs’—supply the Oil’—
It matters not the busy Wick’—
At her phosphoric toil!

982
No Other can reduce
Our mortal Consequence
Like the remembering it be nought
A Period from hence

I know a place where summer strive
With such a practised frost,
She each year leads her daisies ba
Recording briefly, ‘Lost.’
But when the south wind stirs the

The bustle in a house
The morning after death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon earth,—
The sweeping up the heart,

A DOOR just opened on a street—
I, lost, was passing by—
An instant’s width of warmth discl
And wealth, and company.
The door as sudden shut, and I,

547
I’ve seen a Dying Eye
Run round and round a Room—
In search of Something—as it seem
Then Cloudier become—

I dreaded that first robin so,
But he is mastered now,
And I’m accustomed to him grown,—
He hurts a little, though.
I thought if I could only live

417
Is it dead’—Find it’—
Out of sound’—Out of sight’—
“Happy”? Which is wiser’—
You, or the Wind?

WITHIN my reach!
I could have touched!
I might have chanced that way!
Soft sauntered through the village
Sauntered as soft away!