312 Her—“last Poems”— Poets—ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled other,

STEP lightly on this narrow spot… The broadest land that grows Is not so ample as the breast These emerald seams enclose. Step lofty; for this name is told

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

921 If it had no pencil Would it try mine— Worn—now—and dull—sweet, Writing much to thee.

547 I’ve seen a Dying Eye Run round and round a Room— In search of Something—as it seem… Then Cloudier become—

CXXXVI I STEPPED from plank to plank So slow and cautiously; The stars about my head I felt, About my feet the sea.

They shut me up in Prose— As when a little Girl They put me in the Closet— Because they liked me “still”— Still! Could themself have peeped…

501 This World is not Conclusion. A Species stands beyond— Invisible, as Music— But positive, as Sound—

490 To One denied the drink To tell what Water is Would be acuter, would it not Than letting Him surmise?

163 Tho’ my destiny be Fustian— Hers be damask fine— Tho’ she wear a silver apron— I, a less divine—

XXXI I FOUND the phrase to every tho… I ever had, but one; And that defies me,—as a hand Did try to chalk the sun

Declaiming Waters none may dread… But Waters that are still Are so for that most fatal cause In Nature– they are full –