1670 In Winter in my Room I came upon a Worm— Pink, lank and warm— But as he was a worm

Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate Whose table once a Guest but not The second time is set.

348 I dreaded that first Robin, so, But He is mastered, now, I’m accustomed to Him grown, He hurts a little, though—

792 Through the strait pass of sufferi… The Martyrs—even—trod. Their feet—upon Temptations— Their faces—upon God—

Growth of Man—like Growth of Nat… Gravitates within— Atmosphere, and Sun endorse it— Bit it stir—alone— Each—its difficult Ideal

Lightly stepped a yellow star To its lofty place - Loosed the Moon her silver hat From her lustral Face - All of Evening softly lit

The Hills erect their Purple Hea… The Rivers lean to see Yet Man has not of all the Throng A Curiosity.

675 Essential Oilsare wrung The Attar from the Rose Be not expressed by Sunsalone It is the gift of Screws

To die—takes just a little while— They say it doesn’t hurt— It’s only fainter—by degrees— And then—it’s out of sight— A darker Ribbon—for a Day—

901 Sweet, to have had them lost For news that they be saved— The nearer they departed Us The nearer they, restored,

513 Like Flowers, that heard the news… But never deemed the dripping priz… Awaited their—low Brows— Or Bees—that thought the Summer’s…