58 Delayed till she had ceased to kno… Delayed till in its vest of snow Her loving bosom lay— An hour behind the fleeting breath…

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

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

607 Of nearness to her sundered Thing… The Soul has special times— When Dimness—looks the Oddity— Distinctness—easy—se ems—

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—

517 He parts Himself—like Leaves— And then—He closes up— Then stands upon the Bonnet Of Any Buttercup—

470 I am alive—I guess— The Branches on my Hand Are full of Morning Glory— And at my finger’s end—

926 Patience—has a quiet Outer— Patience—Look within— Is an Insect’s futile forces Infinites—between—

This is the land the sunset washes… These are the banks of the Yellow… Where it rose, or whither it rushe… These are the western mystery! Night after night her purple traff…

1510 How happy is the little Stone That rambles in the Road alone, And doesn’t care about Careers And Exigencies never fears—

600 It troubled me as once I was— For I was once a Child— Concluding how an Atom—fell— And yet the Heavens—held—