GLEE! the great storm is over!
Four have recovered the land;
Forty gone down together
Into the boiling sand.
Ring, for the scant salvation!

100
A science—so the Savants say,
“Comparative Anatomy”—
By which a single bone—
Is made a secret to unfold

The Work of Her that went,
The Toil of Fellows done -
In Ovens green our Mother bakes,
By Fires of the Sun.

23
I had a guinea golden—
I lost it in the sand—
And tho’ the sum was simple
And pounds were in the land—

704
No matter’—now’—Sweet’—
But when I’m Earl’—
Won’t you wish you’d spoken
To that dull Girl?

679
Conscious am I in my Chamber,
Of a shapeless friend—
He doth not attest by Posture—
Nor Confirm—by Word—

A little bread—a crust—a crumb—
A little trust—a demijohn—
Can keep the soul alive—
Not portly, mind! but breathing—wa
Conscious—as old Napoleon,

“Heaven” has different Signs—to m
Sometimes, I think that Noon
Is but a symbol of the Place—
And when again, at Dawn,
A mighty look runs round the Worl

45
There’s something quieter than sle
Within this inner room!
It wears a sprig upon its breast—
And will not tell its name.

931
Noon’—is the Hinge of Day’—
Evening’—the Tissue Door’—
Morning’—the East compelling the
Till all the World is ajar’—