MINE enemy is growing old, I have at last revenge. The palate of the hate departs; If any would avenge, Let him be quick, the viand flits,

453 Love — thou art high — I cannot climb thee — But, were it Two — Who knows but we —

842 Good to hide, and hear 'em hunt! Better, to be found, If one care to, that is, The Fox fits the Hound—

634 You’ll know Her—by Her Foot— The smallest Gamboge Hand With Fingers—where the Toes shoul… Would more affront the Sand—

718 I meant to find Her when I came— Death—had the same design— But the Success—was His—it seems— And the Surrender—Mine—

544 The Martyr Poets—did not tell— But wrought their Pang in syllabl… That when their mortal name be num… Their mortal fate—encourage Some—

321 Of all the Sounds despatched abro… There’s not a Charge to me Like that old measure in the Boug… That phraseless Melody—

XXXI I FOUND the phrase to every tho… I ever had, but one; And that defies me,—as a hand Did try to chalk the sun

Water makes many Beds For those averse to sleep - Its awful chamber open stands - Its Curtains blandly sweep - Abhorrent is the Rest

A Sickness of this World it most… When Best Men die. A Wishfulness their far Condition To occupy. A Chief indifference, as Foreign

The Butterfly in honored Dust Assuredly will lie But none will pass the Catacomb So chastened as the Fly -