His bill an auger is, His head, a cap and frill. He laboreth at every tree,— A worm his utmost goal.

LXI A LITTLE road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee, Or cart of butterfly.

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

732 She rose to His Requirement—dropt The Playthings of Her Life To take the honorable Work Of Woman, and of Wife—

531 We dream—it is good we are dreamin… It would hurt us—were we awake— But since it is playing—kill us, And we are playing—shriek—

147 Bless God, he went as soldiers, His musket on his breast— Grant God, he charge the bravest Of all the martial blest!

Good night! which put the candle o… A jealous zephyr, not a doubt. Ah! friend, you little knew How long at that celestial wick The angels labored diligent;

My nosegays are for captives; Dim, long-expectant eyes, Fingers denied the plucking, Patient till paradise. To such, if they should whisper

694 The Heaven vests for Each In that small Deity It craved the grace to worship Some bashful Summer’s Day—

523 Sweet—You forgot—but I remembered Every time—for Two— So that the Sum be never hindered Through Decay of You—

661 Could I but ride indefinite As doth the Meadow Bee And visit only where I liked And No one visit me

547 I’ve seen a Dying Eye Run round and round a Room— In search of Something—as it seem… Then Cloudier become—