Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,

165 A Wounded Deer—leaps highest— I’ve heard the Hunter tell— ’Tis but the Ecstasy of death— And then the Brake is still!

448 This was a Poet—It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings— And Attar so immense

131 Besides the Autumn poets sing A few prosaic days A little this side of the snow And that side of the Haze—

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

413 I never felt at Home–Below– And in the Handsome Skies I shall not feel at Home–I know– I don’t like Paradise–

425 Good Morning’—Midnight’— I’m coming Home’— Day’—got tired of Me’— How could I’—of Him?

867 Escaping backward to perceive The Sea upon our place— Escaping forward, to confront His glittering Embrace—

575 “Heaven” has different Signs—to m… Sometimes, I think that Noon Is but a symbol of the Place— And when again, at Dawn,

993 We miss Her, not because We see— The Absence of an Eye— Except its Mind accompany Abridge Society

555 Trust in the Unexpected— By this—was William Kidd Persuaded of the Buried Gold— As One had testified—

A little road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee, Or cart of butterfly. If town it have, beyond itself,