710 The Sunrise runs for Both— The East—Her Purple Troth Keeps with the Hill— The Noon unwinds Her Blue

252 I can wade Grief— Whole Pools of it— I’m used to that— But the least push of Joy

719 A South Wind—has a pathos Of individual Voice— As One detect on Landings An Emigrant’s address.

You love the Lord—you cannot see— You write Him—every day— A little note—when you awake— And further in the Day. An Ample Letter—How you miss—

So much of Heaven has gone from E… That there must be a Heaven If only to enclose the Saints To Affidavit given. The Missionary to the Mole

If all the griefs I am to have Would only come today, I am so happy I believe They’d laugh and run away. If all the joys I am to have

198 An awful Tempest mashed the air— The clouds were gaunt, and few— A Black—as of a Spectre’s Cloak Hid Heaven and Earth from view.

116 I had some things that I called m… And God, that he called his, Till, recently a rival Claim Disturbed these amities.

863 That Distance was between Us That is not of Mile or Main— The Will it is that situates— Equator—never can—

Delight becomes pictorial When viewed through pain,— More fair, because impossible That any gain. The mountaln at a given distance