544 The Martyr Poets—did not tell— But wrought their Pang in syllabl… That when their mortal name be num… Their mortal fate—encourage Some—

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

So much of Heaven has gone from E… That there must be a Heaven If only to enclose the Saints To Affidavit given. The Missionary to the Mole

30 Adrift! A little boat adrift! And night is coming down! Will no one guide a little boat Unto the nearest town?

401 What Soft—Cherubic Creatures— These Gentlewomen are— One would as soon assault a Plush… Or violate a Star—

364 The Morning after Woe— ’Tis frequently the Way— Surpasses all that rose before— For utter Jubilee—

403 The Winters are so short— I’m hardly justified In sending all the Birds away— And moving into Pod—

Delight becomes pictorial When viewed through pain,— More fair, because impossible That any gain. The mountaln at a given distance

628 They called me to the Window, for “ ’Twas Sunset”—Some one said— I only saw a Sapphire Farm— And just a Single Herd—

608 Afraid! Of whom am I afraid? Not Death—for who is He? The Porter of my Father’s Lodge As much abasheth me!