608 Afraid! Of whom am I afraid? Not Death—for who is He? The Porter of my Father’s Lodge As much abasheth me!

43 Could live—did live— Could die—did die— Could smile upon the whole Through faith in one he met not,

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

XXXVI I NEVER hear the word “escape” Without a quicker blood, A sudden expectation, A flying attitude.

862 Light is sufficient to itself— If Others want to see It can be had on Window Panes Some Hours in the Day.

990 Not all die early, dying young— Maturity of Fate Is consummated equally In Ages, or a Night—

462 Why make it doubt — it hurts it so… So sick — to guess — So strong — to know — So brave — upon its little Bed

99 New feet within my garden go— New fingers stir the sod— A Troubadour upon the Elm Betrays the solitude.