99 New feet within my garden go— New fingers stir the sod— A Troubadour upon the Elm Betrays the solitude.

608 Afraid! Of whom am I afraid? Not Death—for who is He? The Porter of my Father’s Lodge As much abasheth me!

997 Crumbling is not an instant’s Act A fundamental pause Dilapidation’s processes Are organized Decays.

157 Musicians wrestle everywhere— All day—among the crowded air I hear the silver strife— And—walking—long before the morn—

Abraham to kill him Was distinctly told’— Isaac was an Urchin’— Abraham was old’— Not a hesitation’—

623 It was too late for Man— But early, yet, for God— Creation—impotent to help— But Prayer—remained—Our Side—

559 It knew no Medicine— It was not Sickness—then— Nor any need of Surgery— And therefore—'twas not Pain—

207 Tho’ I get home how late—how late… So I get home—’twill compensate— Better will be the Ecstasy That they have done expecting me—

947 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?

I never hear the word 'escape’ Without a quicker blood, A sudden expectation, A flying attitude. I never hear of prisons broad

849 The good Will of a Flower The Man who would possess Must first present Certificate