I counted till they danced so Their slippers leaped the town, And then I took a pencil To note the rebels down. And then they grew so jolly

281 ’Tis so appalling—it exhilarates— So over Horror, it half Captivate… The Soul stares after it, secure— A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more…

382 For Death—or rather For the Things 'twould buy— This—put away Life’s Opportunity—

608 Afraid! Of whom am I afraid? Not Death—for who is He? The Porter of my Father’s Lodge As much abasheth me!

57 To venerate the simple days Which lead the seasons by, Needs but to remember That from you or I,

Whether they have forgotten Or are forgetting now Or never remembered - Safer not to know - Miseries of conjecture

830 To this World she returned. But with a tinge of that— A Compound manner, As a Sod

962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—

Exhilaration is the Breeze That lifts us from the Ground And leaves us in another place Whose statement is not found - Returns us not, but after time

470 I am alive—I guess— The Branches on my Hand Are full of Morning Glory— And at my finger’s end—

944 I learned—at least—what Home coul… How ignorant I had been Of pretty ways of Covenant— How awkward at the Hymn