109 By a flower—By a letter— By a nimble love— If I weld the Rivet faster— Final fast—above—

930 There is a June when Corn is cut And Roses in the Seed— A Summer briefer than the first But tenderer indeed

856 There is a finished feeling Experienced at Graves— A leisure of the Future— A Wilderness of Size.

Delight becomes pictorial When viewed through pain,— More fair, because impossible That any gain. The mountaln at a given distance

How lonesome the Wind must feel N… When people have put out the Ligh… And everything that has an Inn Closes the shutter and goes in— How pompous the Wind must feel No…

450 Dreams—are well—but Waking’s bett… If One wake at morn— If One wake at Midnight—better— Dreaming—of the Dawn—

939 What I see not, I better see— Through Faith—my Hazel Eye Has periods of shutting— But, No lid has Memory—

348 I would not paint—a picture— I’d rather be the One It’s bright impossibility To dwell—delicious—on—

1100 The last Night that She lived It was a Common Night Except the Dying—this to Us Made Nature different

542 I had no Cause to be awake— My Best—was gone to sleep— And Morn a new politeness took— And failed to wake them up—

LXII A DROP fell on the apple tree Another on the roof; A half a dozen kissed the eaves, And made the gables laugh.