442
God made a little Gentian—
It tried—to be a Rose—
And failed—and all the Summer lau
But just before the Snows

889
Crisis is a Hair
Toward which the forces creep
Past which forces retrograde
If it come in sleep

718
I meant to find Her when I came—
Death—had the same design—
But the Success—was His—it seems—
And the Surrender—Mine—

The Butterfly in honored Dust
Assuredly will lie
But none will pass the Catacomb
So chastened as the Fly -

453
Love — thou art high —
I cannot climb thee —
But, were it Two —
Who knows but we —

31
Summer for thee, grant I may be
When Summer days are flown!
Thy music still, when Whipporwill
And Oriole—are done!

The Mushroom is the Elf of Plant
At Evening, it is not
At Morning, in a Truffled Hut
It stop opon a Spot
As if it tarried always

266
This—is the land—the Sunset washe
These—are the Banks of the Yellow
Where it rose—or whither it rushes
These—are the Western Mystery!

I envy seas whereon he rides,
I envy spokes of wheels
Of chariots that him convey,
I envy speechless hills
That gaze upon his journey;

819
All I may, if small,
Do it not display
Larger for the Totalness—
’Tis Economy