828 The Robin is the One That interrupt the Morn With hurried—few—express Reports When March is scarcely on—

There’s a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons— That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes— Heavenly Hurt, it gives us—

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

491 While it is alive Until Death touches it While it and I lap one Air Dwell in one Blood

Part One: Life LI IT tossed and tossed,— A little brig I knew,— O’ertook by blast,

626 Only God—detect the Sorrow— Only God— The Jehovahs—are no Babblers— Unto God—

I have no life but this, To lead it here; Nor any death, but lest Dispelled from there; Nor tie to earths to come,

153 Dust is the only Secret— Death, the only One You cannot find out all about In his “native town.”

101 Will there really be a “Morning”? Is there such a thing as “Day”? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they?

717 The Beggar Lad—dies early— It’s Somewhat in the Cold— And Somewhat in the Trudging feet… And haply, in the World—

869 Because the Bee may blameless hum For Thee a Bee do I become List even unto Me. Because the Flowers unafraid