99 New feet within my garden go— New fingers stir the sod— A Troubadour upon the Elm Betrays the solitude.

669 No Romance sold unto Could so enthrall a Man As the perusal of His Individual One—

After great pain, a formal feeling… The Nerves sit ceremonious, like… The stiff Heart questions was it… And Yesterday, or Centuries befor… The Feet, mechanical, go round—

March is the Month of Expectation… The things we do not know - The Persons of prognostication Are coming now - We try to show becoming firmness -

365 Dare you see a Soul at the White… Then crouch within the door— Red—is the Fire’s common tint— But when the vivid Ore

904 Had I not This, or This, I said, Appealing to Myself, In moment of prosperity— Inadequate—were Life—

1068 Further in Summer than the Birds Pathetic from the Grass A minor Nation celebrates Its unobtrusive Mass.

947 Of Tolling Bell I ask the cause? “A Soul has gone to Heaven” I’m answered in a lonesome tone— Is Heaven then a Prison?

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

310 Give little Anguish— Lives will fret— Give Avalanches— And they’ll slant—