557 She hideth Her the last— And is the first, to rise— Her Night doth hardly recompense The Closing of Her eyes—

The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,— The sweeping up the heart,

641 Size circumscribes—it has no room For petty furniture— The Giant tolerates no Gnat For Ease of Gianture—

767 To offer brave assistance To Lives that stand alone— When One has failed to stop them— Is Human—but Divine

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

994 Partake as doth the Bee, Abstemiously. The Rose is an Estate— In Sicily.

Those fair—fictitious People— The Women—plucked away From our familiar Lifetime— The Men of Ivory— Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas—

301 I reason, Earth is short— And Anguish—absolute— And many hurt, But, what of that?

173 A fuzzy fellow, without feet, Yet doth exceeding run! Of velvet, is his Countenance, And his Complexion, dun!

949 Under the Light, yet under, Under the Grass and the Dirt, Under the Beetle’s Cellar Under the Clover’s Root,

91 So bashful when I spied her! So pretty—so ashamed! So hidden in her leaflets Lest anybody find—

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

313 I should have been too glad, I se… Too lifted—for the scant degree Of Life’s penurious Round— My little Circuit would have sham…