557 She hideth Her the last— And is the first, to rise— Her Night doth hardly recompense The Closing of Her eyes—

899 Herein a Blossom lies— A Sepulchre, between— Cross it, and overcome the Bee— Remain—'tis but a Rind.

883 The Poets light but Lamps— Themselves—go out— The Wicks they stimulate— If vital Light

819 All I may, if small, Do it not display Larger for the Totalness— ’Tis Economy

‘T was just this time last year I… I know I heard the corn, When I was carried by the farms,— It had the tassels on. I thought how yellow it would look

I stepped from plank to plank So slow and cautiously; The stars about my head I felt, About my feet the sea. I knew not but the next

336 The face I carry with me—last— When I go out of Time— To take my Rank—by—in the West— That face—will just be thine—

421 A Charm invests a face Imperfectly beheld— The Lady dare not lift her Veil For fear it be dispelled—