675 Essential Oilsare wrung The Attar from the Rose Be not expressed by Sunsalone It is the gift of Screws

The cricket sang, And set the sun, And workmen finished, one by one, Their seam the day upon. The low grass loaded with the dew,

548 Death is potential to that Man Who dies—and to his friend— Beyond that—unconspicuous To Anyone but God—

My cocoon tightens, colors tease, I’m feeling for the air; A dim capacity for wings Degrades the dress I wear. A power of butterfly must be

705 Suspense—is Hostiler than Death— Death—tho’soever Broad, Is just Death, and cannot increas… Suspense—does not conclude –

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—

XLIV THE show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to me My neighbor be.

God gave a loaf to every bird, But just a crumb to me; I dare not eat it, though I starv… My poignant luxury To own it, touch it, prove the fea…

78 A poor—torn heart—a tattered heart… That sat it down to rest— Nor noticed that the Ebbing Day Flowed silver to the West—

43 Could live—did live— Could die—did die— Could smile upon the whole Through faith in one he met not,