941 The Lady feeds Her little Bird At rarer intervals— The little Bird would not dissent But meekly recognize

995 This was in the White of the Year… That—was in the Green— Drifts were as difficult then to t… As Daisies now to be seen—

THROUGH the straight pass of su… The martyrs even trod, Their feet upon temptation, Their faces upon God. A stately, shriven company;

770 I lived on Dread— To Those who know The Stimulus there is In Danger—Other impetus

90 Within my reach! I could have touched! I might have chanced that way! Soft sauntered thro’ the village—

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

32 When Roses cease to bloom, Sir, And Violets are done— When Bumblebees in solemn flight Have passed beyond the Sun—

823 Not that We did, shall be the tes… When Act and Will are done But what Our Lord infers We woul… Had We diviner been—

28 So has a Daisy vanished From the fields today— So tiptoed many a slipper To Paradise away—

March is the Month of Expectation… The things we do not know - The Persons of prognostication Are coming now - We try to show becoming firmness -

175 I have never seen “Volcanoes”— But, when Travellers tell How those old—phlegmatic mountains Usually so still—

35 Nobody knows this little Rose— It might a pilgrim be Did I not take it from the ways And lift it up to thee.

310 Give little Anguish— Lives will fret— Give Avalanches— And they’ll slant—

779 The Service without Hope— Is tenderest, I think— Because ’tis unsustained By stint—Rewarded Work—