This quiet dust was gentlemen and
And lads and girls;
Was laughter and ability and sighi
And frocks and curls;
This passive place a summer’s nimb

525
I think the Hemlock likes to stan
Upon a Marge of Snow—
It suits his own Austerity—
And satisfies an awe

543
I fear a Man of frugal Speech—
I fear a Silent Man—
Haranguer—I can overtake—
Or Babbler—entertain—

SOUL, wilt thou toss again?
By just such a hazard
Hundreds have lost, indeed,
But tens have won an all.
Angels’ breathless ballot

733
The Spirit is the Conscious Ear.
We actually Hear
When We inspect—that’s audible—
That is admitted—Here—

They shut me up in Prose—
As when a little Girl
They put me in the Closet—
Because they liked me “still”—
Still! Could themself have peeped

768
When I hoped, I recollect
Just the place I stood—
At a Window facing West—
Roughest Air—was good—

So much of Heaven has gone from E
That there must be a Heaven
If only to enclose the Saints
To Affidavit given.
The Missionary to the Mole

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

63
If pain for peace prepares
Lo, what “Augustan” years
Our feet await!
If springs from winter rise,