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

793 Grief is a Mouse— And chooses Wainscot in the Breas… For His Shy House— And baffles quest—

Our lives are Swiss— So still—so Cool— Till some odd afternoon The Alps neglect their Curtains And we look farther on!

300 ‘Morning’—means 'Milking’—to the… Dawn’—to the Teneriffe’— Dice’—to the Maid’— Morning means just Risk’—to the L…

The sky is low, the clouds are mea… A travelling flake of snow Across a barn or through a rut Debates if it will go. A narrow wind complains all day

The inundation of the Spring Enlarges every soul - It sweeps the tenement away But leaves the Water whole - In which the soul at first estrang…

284 The Drop, that wrestles in the Se… Forgets her own locality— As I—toward Thee— She knows herself an incense small…

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

392 Through the Dark Sod—as Educatio… The Lily passes sure— Feels her white foot—no trepidatio… Her faith—no fear—

862 Light is sufficient to itself— If Others want to see It can be had on Window Panes Some Hours in the Day.

969 He who in Himself believes— Fraud cannot presume— Faith is Constancy’s Result— And assumes—from Home—