Pain—has an Element of Blank— It cannot recollect When it begun—or if there were A time when it was not— It has no Future—but itself—

353 A happy lip—breaks sudden— It doesn’t state you how It contemplated—smiling— Just consummated—now—

A little road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee, Or cart of butterfly. If town it have, beyond itself,

306 The Soul’s Superior instants Occur to Her—alone— When friend—and Earth’s occasion Have infinite withdrawn—

To see her is a Picture— To hear her is a Tune— To know her an Intemperance As innocent as June— To know her not—Affliction—

763 He told a homely tale And spotted it with tears— Upon his infant face was set The Cicatrice of years—

Our journey had advanced; Our feet were almost come To that odd fork in Being’s road, Eternity by term. Our pace took sudden awe,

To make a prairie it takes a clove… One clover, and a bee. And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few.