391 A Visitor in Marl— Who influences Flowers— Till they are orderly as Busts— And Elegant—as Glass—

921 If it had no pencil Would it try mine— Worn—now—and dull—sweet, Writing much to thee.

997 Crumbling is not an instant’s Act A fundamental pause Dilapidation’s processes Are organized Decays.

161 A feather from the Whippoorwill That everlasting—sings! Whose galleries—are Sunrise— Whose Opera—the Springs—

166 I met a King this afternoon! He had not on a Crown indeed, A little Palmleaf Hat was all, And he was barefoot, I’m afraid!

We don’t cry—Tim and I, We are far too grand— But we bolt the door tight To prevent a friend— Then we hide our brave face

413 I never felt at Home–Below– And in the Handsome Skies I shall not feel at Home–I know– I don’t like Paradise–

539 The Province of the Saved Should be the Art—To save— Through Skill obtained in Themsel… The Science of the Grave

925 Struck, was I, not yet by Lightni… Lightning—lets away Power to perceive His Process With Vitality.

The cricket sang, And set the sun, And workmen finished, one by one, Their seam the day upon. The low grass loaded with the dew,

57 To venerate the simple days Which lead the seasons by, Needs but to remember That from you or I,