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

471 A Night—there lay the Days betwee… The Day that was Before— And Day that was Behind—were one— And now—'twas Night—was here—

99 New feet within my garden go— New fingers stir the sod— A Troubadour upon the Elm Betrays the solitude.

515 No Crowd that has occurred Exhibit—I suppose That General Attendance That Resurrection—does—

789 On a Columnar Self— How ample to rely In Tumult—or Extremity— How good the Certainty

XXII I had no time to hate, because The grave would hinder me, And life was not so ample I Could finish enmity.

722 Sweet Mountains—Ye tell me no lie… Never deny Me—Never fly— Those same unvarying Eyes Turn on Me—when I fail—or feign,

440 ’Tis customary as we part A trinket—to confer— It helps to stimulate the faith When Lovers be afar—

Lightly stepped a yellow star To its lofty place - Loosed the Moon her silver hat From her lustral Face - All of Evening softly lit

679 Conscious am I in my Chamber, Of a shapeless friend— He doth not attest by Posture— Nor Confirm—by Word—

I have no life but this, To lead it here; Nor any death, but lest Dispelled from there; Nor tie to earths to come,