159 A little bread—a crust—a crumb— A little trust—a demijohn— Can keep the soul alive— Not portly, mind! but breathing—wa…

469 The Red—Blaze—is the Morning— The Violet—is Noon— The Yellow—Day—is falling— And after that—is none—

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

Whether they have forgotten Or are forgetting now Or never remembered - Safer not to know - Miseries of conjecture

154 Except to Heaven, she is nought. Except for Angels—lone. Except to some wide-wandering Bee A flower superfluous blown.

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?

808 So set its Sun in Thee What Day be dark to me— What Distance—far— So I the Ships may see

951 As Frost is best conceived By force of its Result— Affliction is inferred By subsequent effect—

Renunciation—is a piercing Virtue… The letting go A Presence—for an Expectation— Not now— The putting out of Eyes—

941 The Lady feeds Her little Bird At rarer intervals— The little Bird would not dissent But meekly recognize

215 What is – “Paradise” – Who live there – Are they “Farmers” – Do they “hoe” –

191 The Skies can’t keep their secret… They tell it to the Hills— The Hills just tell the Orchards— And they—the Daffodils!