Pink, small, and punctual, Aromatic, low, Covert in April, Candid in May, Dear to the moss,

718 I meant to find Her when I came— Death—had the same design— But the Success—was His—it seems— And the Surrender—Mine—

The day came slow, till five o’clo… Then sprang before the hills, Like hindered rubies, or the light… A sudden musket spills. The purple could not keep the east…

881 I’ve none to tell me to but Thee So when Thou failest, nobody. It was a little tie— It just held Two, nor those it he…

175 I have never seen “Volcanoes”— But, when Travellers tell How those old—phlegmatic mountains Usually so still—

302 Like Some Old fashioned Miracle When Summertime is done— Seems Summer’s Recollection And the Affairs of June

207 Tho’ I get home how late—how late… So I get home—’twill compensate— Better will be the Ecstasy That they have done expecting me—

623 It was too late for Man— But early, yet, for God— Creation—impotent to help— But Prayer—remained—Our Side—

I found the phrase to every though… I ever had, but one; And that defies me,—as a hand Did try to chalk the sun To races nurtured in the dark;—

467 We do not play on Graves— Because there isn’t Room— Besides—it isn’t even—it slants And People come—

101 Will there really be a “Morning”? Is there such a thing as “Day”? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they?