883 The Poets light but Lamps— Themselves—go out— The Wicks they stimulate— If vital Light

453 Love—thou art high— I cannot climb thee— But, were it Two— Who know but we—

A fuzzy fellow, without feet, Yet doth exceeding run! Of velvet, is his Countenance, And his Complexion, dun! Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass…

606 The Trees like Tassels—hit—and sw… There seemed to rise a Tune From Miniature Creatures Accompanying the Sun—

262 The lonesome for they know not Wh… The Eastern Exiles—be— Who strayed beyond the Amber line Some madder Holiday—

838 Impossibility, like Wine Exhilarates the Man Who tastes it; Possibility Is flavorless—Combine

957 As One does Sickness over In convalescent Mind, His scrutiny of Chances By blessed Health obscured—

514 Her smile was shaped like other sm… The Dimples ran along— And still it hurt you, as some Bi… Did hoist herself, to sing,

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—

All men for Honor hardest work But are not known to earn - Paid after they have ceased to wor… In Infamy or Urn -

Silence is all we dread. There’s Ransom in a Voice - But Silence is Infinity. Himself have not a face.

99 New feet within my garden go— New fingers stir the sod— A Troubadour upon the Elm Betrays the solitude.

564 My period had come for Prayer— No other Art—would do— My Tactics missed a rudiment— Creator—Was it you?