961 Wert Thou but ill—that I might sh… How long a Day I could endure Though thine attention stop not on… Nor the least signal, Me assure—

556 The Brain, within its Groove Runs evenly—and true— But let a Splinter swerve— ’Twere easier for You—

The cricket sang, And set the sun, And workmen finished, one by one, Their seam the day upon. The low grass loaded with the dew,

A Word dropped careless on a Page May stimulate an eye When folded in perpetual seam The Wrinkled Maker lie Infection in the sentence breeds

Air has no Residence, no Neighbor… No Ear, no Door, No Apprehension of Another Oh, Happy Air! Ethereal Guest at e’en an Outcast…

170 Portraits are to daily faces As an Evening West, To a fine, pedantic sunshine— In a satin Vest!

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

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry....

Image of Light, Adieu - Thanks for the interview - So long– so short – Preceptor of the whole - Coeval Cardinal -

301 I reason, Earth is short— And Anguish—absolute— And many hurt, But, what of that?

442 God made a little Gentian— It tried—to be a Rose— And failed—and all the Summer lau… But just before the Snows

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