544 The Martyr Poets—did not tell— But wrought their Pang in syllabl… That when their mortal name be num… Their mortal fate—encourage Some—

Longing is like the Seed That wrestles in the Ground, Believing if it intercede It shall at length be found. The Hour, and the Clime -

492 Civilization—spurns—the Leopard! Was the Leopard—bold? Deserts—never rebuked her Satin— Ethiop—her Gold—

714 Rest at Night The Sun from shining, Nature—and some Men— Rest at Noon—some Men—

We play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool. The shapes, though, were similar,

“Morning”—means “Milking”—to the… Dawn—to the Teneriffe— Dice—to the Maid— Morning means just Risk—to the Lo… Just revelation—to the Beloved—

801 I play at Riches—to appease The Clamoring for Gold— It kept me from a Thief, I think, For often, overbold

819 All I may, if small, Do it not display Larger for the Totalness— ’Tis Economy

470 I am alive—I guess— The Branches on my Hand Are full of Morning Glory— And at my finger’s end—

His bill an auger is, His head, a cap and frill. He laboreth at every tree,— A worm his utmost goal.

707 The Grace—Myself—might not obtain… Confer upon My flower— Refracted but a Countenance— For I—inhabit Her—

34 Garland for Queens, may be— Laurels—for rare degree Of soul or sword. Ah—but remembering me—

296 One Year ago—jots what? God—spell the word! I—can’t— Was’t Grace? Not that— Was’t Glory? That—will do—