994 Partake as doth the Bee, Abstemiously. The Rose is an Estate— In Sicily.

266 This—is the land—the Sunset washe… These—are the Banks of the Yellow… Where it rose—or whither it rushes… These—are the Western Mystery!

789 On a Columnar Self— How ample to rely In Tumult—or Extremity— How good the Certainty

I started early, took my dog, And visited the sea; The mermaids in the basement Came out to look at me. And frigates in the upper floor

302 Like Some Old fashioned Miracle When Summertime is done— Seems Summer’s Recollection And the Affairs of June

Our lives are Swiss— So still—so Cool— Till some odd afternoon The Alps neglect their Curtains And we look farther on!

XVII WHEN night is almost done, And sunrise grows so near That we can touch the spaces, It ’s time to smooth the hair

603 He found my Being—set it up— Adjusted it to place— Then carved his name—upon it— And bade it to the East

Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,

27 Morns like these—we parted— Noons like these—she rose— Fluttering first—then firmer To her fair repose.

60 Like her the Saints retire, In their Chapeaux of fire, Martial as she! Like her the Evenings steal

970 Color — Caste — Denomination — These — are Time's Affair — Death's diviner Classifying Does not know they are —

When Memory is full Put on the perfect Lid - This Morning’s finest syllable Presumptuous Evening said -

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—

517 He parts Himself—like Leaves— And then—He closes up— Then stands upon the Bonnet Of Any Buttercup—