945 This is a Blossom of the Brain— A small—italic Seed Lodged by Design or Happening The Spirit fructified—

784 Bereaved of all, I went abroad— No less bereaved was I Upon a New Peninsula— The Grave preceded me—

1068 Further in Summer than the Birds Pathetic from the Grass A minor Nation celebrates Its unobtrusive Mass.

Not “Revelation”—'tis—that waits, But our unfurnished eyes—

976 Death is a Dialogue between The Spirit and the Dust. “Dissolve” says Death—The Spirit… I have another Trust”—

Our lives are Swiss— So still—so Cool— Till some odd afternoon The Alps neglect their Curtains And we look farther on!

DEAR March, come in! How glad I am! I looked for you before. Put down your hat— You must have walked—

41 I robbed the Woods— The trusting Woods. The unsuspecting Trees Brought out their Burs and mosses

Of Brussels—it was not— Of Kidderminster? Nay— The Winds did buy it of the Woods… They—sold it unto me It was a gentle price—

497 He strained my faith— Did he find it supple? Shook my strong trust— Did it then—yield?

547 I’ve seen a Dying Eye Run round and round a Room— In search of Something—as it seem… Then Cloudier become—

375 The Angle of a Landscape— That every time I wake— Between my Curtain and the Wall Upon an ample Crack—

I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea; Yet now I know how the heather lo… And what a wave must be. I never spoke with God,