281
’Tis so appalling—it exhilarates—
So over Horror, it half Captivate
The Soul stares after it, secure—
A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more

41
I robbed the Woods—
The trusting Woods.
The unsuspecting Trees
Brought out their Burs and mosses

538
’Tis true’—They shut me in the Co
But then’—Themselves were warm
And could not know the feeling ’tw
Forget it’—Lord’—of Them’—

904
Had I not This, or This, I said,
Appealing to Myself,
In moment of prosperity—
Inadequate—were Life—

THERE is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take

977
Besides this May
We know
There is Another—
How fair

483
A Solemn thing within the Soul
To feel itself get ripe—
And golden hang—while farther up—
The Maker’s Ladders stop—

968
Fitter to see Him, I may be
For the long Hindrance—Grace—to
With Summers, and with Winters, g
Some passing Year—A trait bestow

104
Where I have lost, I softer tread
I sow sweet flower from garden bed
I pause above that vanished head
And mourn.

257
Delight is as the flight—
Or in the Ratio of it,
As the Schools would say—
The Rainbow’s way—