462 Why make it doubt — it hurts it so… So sick — to guess — So strong — to know — So brave — upon its little Bed

This is the land the sunset washes… These are the banks of the Yellow… Where it rose, or whither it rushe… These are the western mystery! Night after night her purple traff…

302 Like Some Old fashioned Miracle When Summertime is done— Seems Summer’s Recollection And the Affairs of June

1510 How happy is the little Stone That rambles in the Road alone, And doesn’t care about Careers And Exigencies never fears—

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

444 It feels a shame to be Alive— When Men so brave—are dead— One envies the Distinguished Dust… Permitted—such a Head—

768 When I hoped, I recollect Just the place I stood— At a Window facing West— Roughest Air—was good—

421 A Charm invests a face Imperfectly beheld— The Lady dare not lift her Veil For fear it be dispelled—

213 Did the Harebell loose her girdle To the lover Bee Would the Bee the Harebell hallow Much as formerly?

373 I’m saying every day “If I should be a Queen, tomorrow… I’d do this way— And so I deck, a little,

555 Trust in the Unexpected— By this—was William Kidd Persuaded of the Buried Gold— As One had testified—