148 All overgrown by cunning moss, All interspersed with weed, The little cage of “Currer Bell” In quiet “Haworth” laid.

Death is like the insect Menacing the tree, Competent to kill it, But decoyed may be. Bait it with the balsam,

752 So the Eyes accost—and sunder In an Audience— Stamped—occasionally—forever— So may Countenance

514 Her smile was shaped like other sm… The Dimples ran along— And still it hurt you, as some Bi… Did hoist herself, to sing,

Dying at my music! Bubble! Bubble! Hold me till the Octave’s run! Quick! Burst the Windows! Ritardando!

LXII A DROP fell on the apple tree Another on the roof; A half a dozen kissed the eaves, And made the gables laugh.

Years I had been from home, And now, before the door I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before Stare vacant into mine

843 I made slow Riches but my Gain Was steady as the Sun And every Night, it numbered more Than the preceding One

277 What if I say I shall not wait! What if I burst the fleshly Gate— And pass escaped—to thee! What if I file this Mortal—off—

Wild Nights! Wild Nights! Were I with thee, Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile the winds