779 The Service without Hope— Is tenderest, I think— Because ’tis unsustained By stint—Rewarded Work—

The dying need but little, dear,— A glass of water’s all, A flower’s unobtrusive face To punctuate the wall, A fan, perhaps, a friend’s regret,

428 Taking up the fair Ideal, Just to cast her down When a fracture—we discover— Or a splintered Crown—

330 The Juggler’s Hat her Country is… The Mountain Gorse—the Bee’s!

Dare you see a Soul at the White… Then crouch within the door— Red—is the Fire’s common tint— But when the vivid Ore Has vanquished Flame’s conditions…

312 Her—last Poems— Poets ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled Other,

220 Could I—then—shut the door— Lest my beseeching face—at last— Rejected—be—of Her?

How lonesome the Wind must feel N… When people have put out the Ligh… And everything that has an Inn Closes the shutter and goes in— How pompous the Wind must feel No…

947 Of Tolling Bell I ask the cause? “A Soul has gone to Heaven” I’m answered in a lonesome tone— Is Heaven then a Prison?

Why – do they shut Me out of Heav… Did I sing – too loud? But – I can say a little “minor” Timid as a Bird! Wouldn’t the Angels try me –

772 The hallowing of Pain Like hallowing of Heaven, Obtains at a corporeal cost— The Summit is not given