Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,

845 Be Mine the Doom— Sufficient Fame— To perish in Her Hand!

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…

60 Like her the Saints retire, In their Chapeaux of fire, Martial as she! Like her the Evenings steal

849 The good Will of a Flower The Man who would possess Must first present Certificate

This quiet dust was gentlemen and… And lads and girls; Was laughter and ability and sighi… And frocks and curls; This passive place a summer’s nimb…

443 I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl— Life’s little duties do—precisely— As the very least Were infinite—to me—

Pink, small, and punctual, Aromatic, low, Covert in April, Candid in May, Dear to the moss,

“I want”—it pleaded—All its life— I want—was chief it said When Skill entreated it—the last— And when so newly dead— I could not deem it late—to hear

I had not minded—Walls— Were Universe—one Rock— And far I heard his silver Call The other side the Block— I’d tunnel—till my Groove