564
My period had come for Prayer—
No other Art—would do—
My Tactics missed a rudiment—
Creator—Was it you?

71
A throe upon the features—
A hurry in the breath—
An ecstasy of parting
Denominated “Death”—

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

932
My best Acquaintances are those
With Whom I spoke no Word—
The Stars that stated come to Tow
Esteemed Me never rude

Those fair—fictitious People—
The Women—plucked away
From our familiar Lifetime—
The Men of Ivory—
Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas—

The Savior must have been
A docile Gentleman’—
To come so far so cold a Day
For little Fellowmen’—
The Road to Bethlehem

690
Victory comes late—
And is held low to freezing lips—
Too rapt with frost
To take it—

112
Where bells no more affright the m
Where scrabble never comes—
Where very nimble Gentlemen
Are forced to keep their rooms—

893
Drab Habitation of Whom?
Tabernacle or Tomb—
Or Dome of Worm—
Or Porch of Gnome—

OUR share of night to bear,
Our share of morning,
Our blank in bliss to fill,
Our blank in scorning.
Here a star, and there a star,