296 One Year ago’—jots what? God’—spell the word! I’—can’t’— Was’t Grace? Not that’— Was’t Glory? That’—will do’—

343 My Reward for Being, was This. My premium—My Bliss— An Admiralty, less— A Sceptre—penniless—

496 As far from pity, as complaint— As cool to speech—as stone— As numb to Revelation As if my Trade were Bone—

I meant to find her when I came; Death had the same design; But the success was his, it seems, And the discomfit mine. I meant to tell her how I longed

To flee from memory Had we the Wings Many would fly Inured to slower things Birds with surprise

229 A Burdock—clawed my Gown— Not Burdock’s—blame— But mine— Who went too near

144 She bore it till the simple veins Traced azure on her hand— Til pleading, round her quiet eyes The purple Crayons stand.

814 One Day is there of the Series Termed Thanksgiving Day. Celebrated part at Table Part in Memory.

636 The Way I read a Letter’s—this— ’Tis first—I lock the Door— And push it with my fingers—next— For transport it be sure—

924 Love—is that later Thing than Dea… More previous—than Life— Confirms it at its entrance—And Usurps it—of itself—