539 The Province of the Saved Should be the Art—To save— Through Skill obtained in Themsel… The Science of the Grave

A clock stopped—not the mantel’s Geneva’s farthest skill Can’t put the puppet bowing That just now dangled still. An awe came on the trinket!

208 The Rose did caper on her cheek— Her Bodice rose and fell— Her pretty speech—like drunken men… Did stagger pitiful—

It’s thoughts—and just One Heart— And Old Sunshine—about— Make frugal—Ones—Content— And two or three—for Company— Upon a Holiday—

570 I could die—to know— ’Tis a trifling knowledge— News-Boys salute the Door— Carts—joggle by—

777 The Loneliness One dare not sound… And would as soon surmise As in its Grave go plumbing To ascertain the size—

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

Perhaps I asked too large— I take—no less than skies— For Earths, grow thick as Berries, in my native town— My Basked holds—just—Firmaments—

1068 Further in Summer than the Birds Pathetic from the Grass A minor Nation celebrates Its unobtrusive Mass.

73 Who never lost, are unprepared A Coronet to find! Who never thirsted Flagons, and Cooling Tamarind!