170 Portraits are to daily faces As an Evening West, To a fine, pedantic sunshine— In a satin Vest!

513 Like Flowers, that heard the news… But never deemed the dripping priz… Awaited their—low Brows— Or Bees—that thought the Summer’s…

I like to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step Around a pile of mountains,

713 Fame of Myself, to justify, All other Plaudit be Superfluous—An Incense Beyond Necessity—

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

269 Bound—a trouble— And lives can bear it! Limit—how deep a bleeding go! So—many—drops—of vital scarlet—

841 A Moth the hue of this Haunts Candles in Brazil. Nature’s Experience would make Our Reddest Second pale.

831 Dying! To be afraid of thee One must to thine Artillery Have left exposed a Friend— Than thine old Arrow is a Shot

Nature rarer uses yellow Than another hue; Saves she all of that for sunsets,… Prodigal of blue, Spending scarlet like a woman,

XLIX A POOR torn heart, a tattered he… That sat it down to rest, Nor noticed that the ebbing day Flowed silver to the west,

626 Only God—detect the Sorrow— Only God— The Jehovahs—are no Babblers— Unto God—

86 South Winds jostle them— Bumblebees come— Hover—hesitate— Dri nk, and are gone—