128 Bring me the sunset in a cup, Reckon the morning’s flagons up And say how many Dew, Tell me how far the morning leaps—

Death is like the insect Menacing the tree, Competent to kill it, But decoyed may be. Bait it with the balsam,

468 The Manner of its Death When Certain it must die— ’Tis deemed a privilege to choose— ’Twas Major Andre’s Way—

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

31 Summer for thee, grant I may be When Summer days are flown! Thy music still, when Whipporwill And Oriole—are done!

897 How fortunate the Grave— All Prizes to obtain— Successful certain, if at last, First Suitor not in vain.

87 A darting fear—a pomp—a tear— A waking on a morn To find that what one waked for, Inhales the different dawn.

142 Whose are the little beds, I aske… Which in the valleys lie? Some shook their heads, and others… And no one made reply.

83 Heart, not so heavy as mine Wending late home— As it passed my window Whistled itself a tune—

800 Two—were immortal twice— The privilege of few— Eternity—obtained—in Time— Reversed Divinity’—

428 Taking up the fair Ideal, Just to cast her down When a fracture—we discover— Or a splintered Crown—

44 If she had been the Mistletoe And I had been the Rose— How gay upon your table My velvet life to close—