312 Her—last Poems— Poets ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled Other,

566 A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink— I hunted all the Sand— I caught the Dripping of a Rock And bore it in my Hand—

486 I was the slightest in the House— I took the smallest Room— At night, my little Lamp, and Boo… And one Geranium—

519 ’Twas warm—at first—like Us— Until there crept upon A Chill—like frost upon a Glass— Till all the scene—be gone.

123 Many cross the Rhine In this cup of mine. Sip old Frankfort air From my brown Cigar.

The thought beneath so slight a fi… Is more distincly seen,— As laces just reveal the surge, Or mists the Apennine.

191 The Skies can’t keep their secret… They tell it to the Hills— The Hills just tell the Orchards— And they—the Daffodils!

846 Twice had Summer her fair Verdure Proffered to the Plain— Twice a Winter’s silver Fracture On the Rivers been—

923 How the Waters closed above Him We shall never know— How He stretched His Anguish to… That—is covered too—

By homely gift and hindered Words The human heart is told Of Nothing - ‘Nothing’ is the force That renovates the World -

899 Herein a Blossom lies— A Sepulchre, between— Cross it, and overcome the Bee— Remain—'tis but a Rind.