788 Joy to have merited the Pain— To merit the Release— Joy to have perished every step— To Compass Paradise—

607 Of nearness to her sundered Thing… The Soul has special times— When Dimness—looks the Oddity— Distinctness—easy—se ems—

393 Did Our Best Moment last— ‘Twould supersede the Heaven— A few—and they by Risk—procure— So this Sort—are not given—

506 He touched me, so I live to know That such a day, permitted so, I groped upon his breast— It was a boundless place to me

1763 Fame is a bee. It has a song— It has a sting— Ah, too, it has a wing.

A Sloop of Amber slips away Upon an Ether Sea, And wrecks in Peace a Purple Tar… The Son of Ecstasy -

139 Soul, Wilt thou toss again? By just such a hazard Hundreds have lost indeed— But tens have won an all—

844 Spring is the Period Express from God. Among the other seasons Himself abide,

677 To be alive’—is Power’— Existence’—in itself’— Without a further function’— Omnipotence’—Enough’—

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