There’s a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons— That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes— Heavenly Hurt, it gives us—

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

147 Bless God, he went as soldiers, His musket on his breast— Grant God, he charge the bravest Of all the martial blest!

It struck me every day The lightning was as new As if the cloud that instant slit And let the fire through. It burned me in the night,

646 I think to Live—may be a Bliss To those who dare to try— Beyond my limit to conceive— My lip—to testify—

Not “Revelation”—'tis—that waits, But our unfurnished eyes—

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—

LXI A LITTLE road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee, Or cart of butterfly.

455 Triumph—may be of several kinds— There’s Triumph in the Room When that Old Imperator—Death— By Faith

634 You’ll know Her—by Her Foot— The smallest Gamboge Hand With Fingers—where the Toes shoul… Would more affront the Sand—

608 Afraid! Of whom am I afraid? Not Death—for who is He? The Porter of my Father’s Lodge As much abasheth me!

GLEE! the great storm is over! Four have recovered the land; Forty gone down together Into the boiling sand. Ring, for the scant salvation!