941 The Lady feeds Her little Bird At rarer intervals— The little Bird would not dissent But meekly recognize

145 This heart that broke so long— These feet that never flagged— This faith that watched for star i… Give gently to the dead—

503 Better—than Music! For I—who hea… I was used—to the Birds—before— This—was different—’Twas Translat… Of all tunes I knew—and more—

The pedigree of honey Does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him Is aristocracy.

412 I read my sentence—steadily— Reviewed it with my eyes, To see that I made no mistake In its extremest clause—

792 Through the strait pass of sufferi… The Martyrs—even—trod. Their feet—upon Temptations— Their faces—upon God—

We like March, his shoes are purp… He is new and high; Makes he mud for dog and peddler, Makes he forest dry; Knows the adder’s tongue his comin…

835 Nature and God—I neither knew Yet Both so well knew me They startled, like Executors Of My identity.

462 Why make it doubt — it hurts it so… So sick — to guess — So strong — to know — So brave — upon its little Bed

141 Some, too fragile for winter winds The thoughtful grave encloses— Tenderly tucking them in from fros… Before their feet are cold.

191 The Skies can’t keep their secret… They tell it to the Hills— The Hills just tell the Orchards— And they—the Daffodils!

You love the Lord—you cannot see— You write Him—every day— A little note—when you awake— And further in the Day. An Ample Letter—How you miss—

It’s thoughts—and just One Heart— And Old Sunshine—about— Make frugal—Ones—Content— And two or three—for Company— Upon a Holiday—