351
I felt my life with both my hands
To see if it was there—
I held my spirit to the Glass,
To prove it possibler—

723
It tossed’—and tossed’—
A little Brig I knew’—o’ertook by
It spun’—and spun’—
And groped delirious, for Morn’—

909
I make His Crescent fill or lack—
His Nature is at Full
Or Quarter—as I signify—
His Tides—do I control—

403
The Winters are so short—
I’m hardly justified
In sending all the Birds away—
And moving into Pod—

411
The Color of the Grave is Green—
The Outer Grave—I mean—
You would not know it from the Fi
Except it own a Stone—

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

“Speech”'—is a prank of Parliamen
“Tears”'—is a trick of the nerve’—
But the Heart with the heaviest f
Doesn’t’—always’—move’—

Each life converges to some centre
Expressed or still;
Exists in every human nature
A goal,
Admitted scarcely to itself, it ma

877
Each Scar I’ll keep for Him
Instead I’ll say of Gem
In His long Absence worn
A Costlier one

To lose thee, sweeter than to gain
All other hearts I knew.
Tis true the drought is destitute
But, then, I had the dew!
The Caspian has its realms of san