312 Her—last Poems— Poets ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled Other,

887 We outgrow love, like other things And put it in the Drawer— Till it an Antique fashion shows— Like Costumes Grandsires wore.

The cricket sang, And set the sun, And workmen finished, one by one, Their seam the day upon. The low grass loaded with the dew,

78 A poor—torn heart—a tattered heart… That sat it down to rest— Nor noticed that the Ebbing Day Flowed silver to the West—

163 Tho’ my destiny be Fustian— Hers be damask fine— Tho’ she wear a silver apron— I, a less divine—

453 Love — thou art high — I cannot climb thee — But, were it Two — Who knows but we —

632 The Brain—is wider than the Sky— For—put them side by side— The one the other will contain With ease—and You—beside—

628 They called me to the Window, for “ ’Twas Sunset”—Some one said— I only saw a Sapphire Farm— And just a Single Herd—

455 Triumph—may be of several kinds— There’s Triumph in the Room When that Old Imperator—Death— By Faith

140 An altered look about the hills— A Tyrian light the village fills— A wider sunrise in the morn— A deeper twilight on the lawn—

’Twas Crisis—All the length had p… That dull—benumbing time There is in Fever or Event— And now the Chance had come— The instant holding in its claw