425 Good Morning—Midnight— I’m coming Home— Day—got tired of Me— How could I—of Him?

I found the phrase to every though… I ever had, but one; And that defies me,—as a hand Did try to chalk the sun To races nurtured in the dark;—

372 I know lives, I could miss Without a Misery— Others—whose instant’s wanting— Would be Eternity—

122 A something in a summer’s Day As slow her flambeaux burn away Which solemnizes me. A something in a summer’s noon—

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry....

777 The Loneliness One dare not sound… And would as soon surmise As in its Grave go plumbing To ascertain the size—

651 So much Summer Me for showing Illegitimate— Would a Smile’s minute bestowing

464 The power to be true to You, Until upon my face The Judgment push his Picture— Presumptuous of Your Place—

576 I prayed, at first, a little Girl… Because they told me to— But stopped, when qualified to gue… How prayer would feel—to me—

566 A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink— I hunted all the Sand— I caught the Dripping of a Rock And bore it in my Hand—

How Human Nature dotes On what it can’t detect. The moment that a Plot is plumbed Prospective is extinct - Prospective is the friend

55 By Chivalries as tiny, A Blossom, or a Book, The seeds of smiles are planted— Which blossom in the dark.