The pedigree of honey Does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him Is aristocracy.

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

The Sun kept setting—setting—stil… No Hue of Afternoon— Upon the Village I perceived From House to House ’twas Noon— The Dusk kept dropping—dropping—s…

Apparently with no surprise, To any happy flower, The frost beheads it at its play, In accidental power. The blond assassin passes on.

XXXIV WHO never lost, are unprepared A coronet to find; Who never thirsted, flagons And cooling tamarind.

101 Will there really be a “Morning”? Is there such a thing as “Day”? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they?

The Savior must have been A docile Gentleman— To come so far so cold a Day For little Fellowmen— The Road to Bethlehem

A bird came down the walk: He did not know I saw; He bit an angle-worm in halves And ate the fellow, raw. And then he drank a dew

Not “Revelation”—'tis—that waits, But our unfurnished eyes—

30 Adrift! A little boat adrift! And night is coming down! Will no one guide a little boat Unto the nearest town?

My nosegays are for captives; Dim, long-expectant eyes, Fingers denied the plucking, Patient till paradise. To such, if they should whisper