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

I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was la
In an adjoining room.
He questioned softly why I failed

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

A DOOR just opened on a street—
I, lost, was passing by—
An instant’s width of warmth discl
And wealth, and company.
The door as sudden shut, and I,

264
A Weight with Needles on the poun
To push, and pierce, besides—
That if the Flesh resist the Heft
The puncture—coolly tries—

“Why do I love” You, Sir?
Because—
The Wind does not require the Gra
To answer—Wherefore when He pass
She cannot keep Her place.

283
A Mien to move a Queen—
Half Child—Half Heroine—
An Orleans in the Eye
That puts its manner by

A happy lip—breaks sudden—
It doesn’t state you how
It contemplated—smiling—
Just consummated—now—
But this one, wears its merriment

237
I think just how my shape will ris
When I shall be “forgiven”—
Till Hair—and Eyes—and timid Hea
Are out of sight—in Heaven—

733
The Spirit is the Conscious Ear.
We actually Hear
When We inspect—that’s audible—
That is admitted—Here—