The Grass so little has to do— A Sphere of simple Green— With only Butterflies to brood And Bees to entertain— And stir all day to pretty Tunes

XXVIII I BRING an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching, next to min… And summon them to drink. Crackling with fever, they essay;

481 The Himmaleh was known to stoop Unto the Daisy low— Transported with Compassion That such a Doll should grow

476 I meant to have but modest needs— Such as Content—and Heaven— Within my income—these could lie And Life and I—keep even—

139 Soul, Wilt thou toss again? By just such a hazard Hundreds have lost indeed— But tens have won an all—

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

150 She died—this was the way she died… And when her breath was done Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun—

603 He found my Being—set it up— Adjusted it to place— Then carved his name—upon it— And bade it to the East

545 ’Tis One by One—the Father count… And then a Tract between Set Cypherless—to teach the Eye The Value of its Ten—

Pain—has an Element of Blank— It cannot recollect When it begun—or if there were A time when it was not— It has no Future—but itself—