907
Till Death’—is narrow Loving’—
The scantest Heart extant
Will hold you till your privilege
Of Finiteness’—be spent’—

467
We do not play on Graves—
Because there isn’t Room—
Besides—it isn’t even—it slants
And People come—

A light exists in spring
Not present on the year
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here
A color stands abroad

490
To One denied the drink
To tell what Water is
Would be acuter, would it not
Than letting Him surmise?

Witchcraft has not a pedigree,
‘€˜Tis early as our breath,
And mourners meet it going out
The moment of our death.

Part One: Life
I CAN wade grief,
Whole pools of it,—
I ’m used to that.
But the least push of joy

960
As plan for Noon and plan for Nig
So differ Life and Death
In positive Prospective—
The Foot upon the Earth

994
Partake as doth the Bee,
Abstemiously.
The Rose is an Estate—
In Sicily.

316
The Wind didn’t come from the Orc
Further than that’—
Nor stop to play with the Hay’—
Nor joggle a Hat’—

458
Like eyes that looked on Wastes—
Incredulous of Ought
But Blank—and steady Wilderness—
Diversified by Night—