166 I met a King this afternoon! He had not on a Crown indeed, A little Palmleaf Hat was all, And he was barefoot, I’m afraid!

560 It knew no lapse, nor Diminuation… But large—serene— Burned on—until through Dissoluti… It failed from Men—

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—

597 It always felt to me—a wrong To that Old Moses—done— To let him see—the Canaan— Without the entering—

717 The Beggar Lad—dies early— It’s Somewhat in the Cold— And Somewhat in the Trudging feet… And haply, in the World—

957 As One does Sickness over In convalescent Mind, His scrutiny of Chances By blessed Health obscured—

651 So much Summer Me for showing Illegitimate— Would a Smile’s minute bestowing

266 This—is the land—the Sunset washe… These—are the Banks of the Yellow… Where it rose—or whither it rushes… These—are the Western Mystery!

281 ’Tis so appalling—it exhilarates— So over Horror, it half Captivate… The Soul stares after it, secure— A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more…

346 Not probable—The barest Chance— A smile too few—a word too much And far from Heaven as the Rest— The Soul so close on Paradise—

642 Me from Myself — to banish — Had I Art — Impregnable my Fortress Unto All Heart —