XXII I had no time to hate, because The grave would hinder me, And life was not so ample I Could finish enmity.

719 A South Wind—has a pathos Of individual Voice— As One detect on Landings An Emigrant’s address.

204 A slash of Blue— A sweep of Gray— Some scarlet patches on the way, Compose an Evening Sky—

715 The World—feels Dusty When We stop to Die— We want the Dew—then— Honors—taste dry—

422 More Life—went out—when He went Than Ordinary Breath— Lit with a finer Phosphor— Requiring in the Quench—

515 No Crowd that has occurred Exhibit—I suppose That General Attendance That Resurrection—does—

154 Except to Heaven, she is nought. Except for Angels—lone. Except to some wide-wandering Bee A flower superfluous blown.

The reticent volcano keeps His never slumbering plan - Confided are his projects pink To no precarious man. If nature will not tell the tale

740 You taught me Waiting with Myself… Appointment strictly kept’— You taught me fortitude of Fate’— This’—also’—I have learnt’—

539 The Province of the Saved Should be the Art—To save— Through Skill obtained in Themsel… The Science of the Grave

854 Banish Air from Air— Divide Light if you dare— They’ll meet While Cubes in a Drop