470 I am alive—I guess— The Branches on my Hand Are full of Morning Glory— And at my finger’s end—

176 I’m the little “Heart’s Ease”! I don’t care for pouting skies! If the Butterfly delay Can I, therefore, stay away?

This is the land the sunset washes… These are the banks of the Yellow… Where it rose, or whither it rushe… These are the western mystery! Night after night her purple traff…

710 The Sunrise runs for Both— The East—Her Purple Troth Keeps with the Hill— The Noon unwinds Her Blue

114 Good night, because we must, How intricate the dust! I would go, to know! Oh incognito!

910 Experience is the Angled Road Preferred against the Mind By—Paradox—the Mind itself— Presuming it to lead

Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate Whose table once a Guest but not The second time is set.

726 We thirst at first—’tis Nature’s… And later—when we die— A little Water supplicate— Of fingers going by—

896 Of Silken Speech and Specious Sh… A Traitor is the Bee His service to the newest Grace Present continually

549 That I did always love I bring thee Proof That till I loved I never lived—Enough—

464 The power to be true to You, Until upon my face The Judgment push his Picture— Presumptuous of Your Place—