18 The Gentian weaves her fringes— The Maple’s loom is red— My departing blossoms Obviate parade.

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,

632 The Brain—is wider than the Sky— For—put them side by side— The one the other will contain With ease—and You—beside—

543 I fear a Man of frugal Speech— I fear a Silent Man— Haranguer—I can overtake— Or Babbler—entertain—

417 Is it dead—Find it— Out of sound—Out of sight— “Happy”? Which is wiser— You, or the Wind?

659 That first Day, when you praised… And said that I was strong— And could be mighty, if I liked— That Day—the Days among—

347 When Night is almost done— And Sunrise grows so near That we can touch the Spaces— It’s time to smooth the Hair—

979 This Merit hath the worst— It cannot be again— When Fate hath taunted last And thrown Her furthest Stone—

A Word dropped careless on a Page May stimulate an eye When folded in perpetual seam The Wrinkled Maker lie Infection in the sentence breeds

529 I’m sorry for the Dead—Today— It’s such congenial times Old Neighbors have at fences— It’s time o’ year for Hay.

A lane of Yellow led the eye Unto a Purple Wood Whose soft inhabitants to be Surpasses solitude If Bird the silence contradict