737 The Moon was but a Chin of Gold A Night or two ago— And now she turns Her perfect Fac… Upon the World below—

525 I think the Hemlock likes to stan… Upon a Marge of Snow— It suits his own Austerity— And satisfies an awe

52 Whether my bark went down at sea— Whether she met with gales— Whether to isles enchanted She bent her docile sails—

921 If it had no pencil Would it try mine— Worn—now—and dull—sweet, Writing much to thee.

How slow the Wind - how slow the sea - how late their Fathers be!

5 I have a Bird in spring Which for myself doth sing— The spring decoys. And as the summer nears—

422 More Life—went out—when He went Than Ordinary Breath— Lit with a finer Phosphor— Requiring in the Quench—

I stepped from plank to plank So slow and cautiously; The stars about my head I felt, About my feet the sea. I knew not but the next

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