65 I can’t tell you—but you feel it— Nor can you tell me— Saints, with ravished slate and pe… Solve our April Day!

486 I was the slightest in the House— I took the smallest Room— At night, my little Lamp, and Boo… And one Geranium—

God permit industrious angels Afternoons to play. I met one,—forgot my school-mates, All, for him, straightaway. God calls home the angels promptly

The Butterfly in honored Dust Assuredly will lie But none will pass the Catacomb So chastened as the Fly -

369 She lay as if at play Her life had leaped away— Intending to return— But not so soon—

620 It makes no difference abroad— The Seasons—fit—the same— The Mornings blossom into Noons— And split their Pods of Flame—

To make a prairie it takes a clove… One clover, and a bee. And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few.

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

I counted till they danced so Their slippers leaped the town, And then I took a pencil To note the rebels down. And then they grew so jolly

549 That I did always love I bring thee Proof That till I loved I never lived—Enough—

468 The Manner of its Death When Certain it must die— ’Tis deemed a privilege to choose— ’Twas Major Andre’s Way—