410 The first Day’s Night had come— And grateful that a thing So terrible—had been endured— I told my Soul to sing—

23 I had a guinea golden— I lost it in the sand— And tho’ the sum was simple And pounds were in the land—

104 Where I have lost, I softer tread… I sow sweet flower from garden bed… I pause above that vanished head And mourn.

Escape is such a thankful Word I often in the Night Consider it unto myself No spectacle in sight Escape - it is the Basket

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

158 Dying! Dying in the night! Won’t somebody bring the light So I can see which way to go Into the everlasting snow?

That only lasts an hour How much '— how little '— is Within our power

485 To make One’s Toilette—after Dea… Has made the Toilette cool Of only Taste we cared to please Is difficult, and still—

I never hear the word 'escape’ Without a quicker blood, A sudden expectation, A flying attitude. I never hear of prisons broad

401 What Soft—Cherubic Creatures— These Gentlewomen are— One would as soon assault a Plush… Or violate a Star—

A little road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee, Or cart of butterfly. If town it have, beyond itself,