525 I think the Hemlock likes to stan… Upon a Marge of Snow— It suits his own Austerity— And satisfies an awe

169 In Ebon Box, when years have flow… To reverently peer, Wiping away the velvet dust Summers have sprinkled there!

592 What care the Dead, for Chanticle… What care the Dead for Day? ’Tis late your Sunrise vex their… And Purple Ribaldry—of Morning

122 A something in a summer’s Day As slow her flambeaux burn away Which solemnizes me. A something in a summer’s noon—

355 ’Tis Opposites—entice— Deformed Men—ponder Grace— Bright fires—the Blanketless— The Lost—Day’s face—

233 The Lamp burns sure’—within’— Tho’ Serfs’—supply the Oil’— It matters not the busy Wick’— At her phosphoric toil!

565 One Anguish’—in a Crowd’— A Minor thing’—it sounds’— And yet, unto the single Doe Attempted of the Hounds

968 Fitter to see Him, I may be For the long Hindrance—Grace—to… With Summers, and with Winters, g… Some passing Year—A trait bestow

THE thought beneath so slight a f… Is more distinctly seen,— As laces just reveal the surge, Or mists the Apennine.

626 Only God’—detect the Sorrow’— Only God’— The Jehovahs’—are no Babblers’— Unto God’—

195 For this’—accepted Breath’— Through it’—compete with Death’— The fellow cannot touch this Crow… By it’—my title take’—

468 The Manner of its Death When Certain it must die— ’Tis deemed a privilege to choose— ’Twas Major Andre’s Way—

845 Be Mine the Doom— Sufficient Fame— To perish in Her Hand!

The going from a world we know To one a wonder still Is like the child’s adversity Whose vista is a hill, Behind the hill is sorcery