444 It feels a shame to be Alive— When Men so brave—are dead— One envies the Distinguished Dust… Permitted—such a Head—

782 There is an arid Pleasure— As different from Joy— As Frost is different from Dew— Like element—are they—

898 How happy I was if I could forget To remember how sad I am Would be an easy adversity But the recollecting of Bloom

733 The Spirit is the Conscious Ear. We actually Hear When We inspect—that’s audible— That is admitted—Here—

410 The first Day’s Night had come— And grateful that a thing So terrible—had been endured— I told my Soul to sing—

Between My Country—and the Other… There is a Sea— But Flowers—negotiate between us— As Ministry.

998 Best Things dwell out of Sight The Pearl—the Just—Our Thought. Most shun the Public Air Legitimate, and Rare—

XVII WHEN night is almost done, And sunrise grows so near That we can touch the spaces, It ’s time to smooth the hair

140 An altered look about the hills— A Tyrian light the village fills— A wider sunrise in the morn— A deeper twilight on the lawn—

525 I think the Hemlock likes to stan… Upon a Marge of Snow— It suits his own Austerity— And satisfies an awe