LXI A LITTLE road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee, Or cart of butterfly.

722 Sweet Mountains—Ye tell me no lie… Never deny Me—Never fly— Those same unvarying Eyes Turn on Me—when I fail—or feign,

150 She died—this was the way she died… And when her breath was done Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun—

402 I pay—in Satin Cash— You did not state—your price— A Petal, for a Paragraph It near as I can guess—

934 That is solemn we have ended Be it but a Play Or a Glee among the Garret Or a Holiday

Not in this world to see his face Sounds long, until I read the pla… Where this is said to be But just the primer to a life Unopened, rare, upon the shelf,

312 Her—“last Poems”— Poets—ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled other,

586 We talked as Girls do— Fond, and late— We speculated fair, on every subje… Of ours, none affair—

I like to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step Around a pile of mountains,

‘Faith’ is a fine invention When Gentlemen can see’— But Microscopes are prudent In an Emergency.

The thought beneath so slight a fi… Is more distincly seen,— As laces just reveal the surge, Or mists the Apennine.

The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,— The sweeping up the heart,

183 I’ve heard an Organ talk, sometim… In a Cathedral Aisle, And understood no word it said— Yet held my breath, the while—