Pink, small, and punctual, Aromatic, low, Covert in April, Candid in May, Dear to the moss,

Our journey had advanced; Our feet were almost come To that odd fork in Being’s road, Eternity by term. Our pace took sudden awe,

500 Within my Garden, rides a Bird Upon a single Wheel— Whose spokes a dizzy Music make As ’twere a travelling Mill—

703 Out of sight? What of that? See the Bird—reach it! Curve by Curve—Sweep by Sweep— Round the Steep Air—

831 Dying! To be afraid of thee One must to thine Artillery Have left exposed a Friend— Than thine old Arrow is a Shot

364 The Morning after Woe— ’Tis frequently the Way— Surpasses all that rose before— For utter Jubilee—

1763 Fame is a bee. It has a song— It has a sting— Ah, too, it has a wing.

549 That I did always love I bring thee Proof That till I loved I never lived—Enough—

576 I prayed, at first, a little Girl… Because they told me to— But stopped, when qualified to gue… How prayer would feel—to me—

863 That Distance was between Us That is not of Mile or Main— The Will it is that situates— Equator—never can—

322 There came a Day at Summer’s full… Entirely for me— I thought that such were for the… Where Resurrections—be—