How lonesome the Wind must feel N… When people have put out the Ligh… And everything that has an Inn Closes the shutter and goes in— How pompous the Wind must feel No…

502 At least—to pray—is left—is left— Oh Jesus—in the Air— I know not which thy chamber is— I’m knocking—everywhere—

Perhaps I asked too large— I take—no less than skies— For Earths, grow thick as Berries, in my native town— My Basked holds—just—Firmaments—

I cannot live with You— It would be Life— And Life is over there— Behind the Shelf The Sexton keeps the Key to—

6 Frequently the wood are pink— Frequently are brown. Frequently the hills undress Behind my native town.

523 Sweet—You forgot—but I remembered Every time—for Two— So that the Sum be never hindered Through Decay of You—

302 Like Some Old fashioned Miracle When Summertime is done— Seems Summer’s Recollection And the Affairs of June

215 What is – “Paradise” – Who live there – Are they “Farmers” – Do they “hoe” –

463 I live with Him — I see His face… I go no more away For Visitor — or Sundown — Death's single privacy

“Sic transit gloria mundi,” “How doth the busy bee,” “Dum vivimus vivamus,” I stay mine enemy! Oh “veni, vidi, vici!”

867 Escaping backward to perceive The Sea upon our place— Escaping forward, to confront His glittering Embrace—

954 The Chemical conviction That Nought be lost Enable in Disaster My fractured Trust—

725 Where Thou art—that—is Home— Cashmere—or Calvary—the same— Degree—or Shame— I scarce esteem Location’s Name—