266 This—is the land—the Sunset washe… These—are the Banks of the Yellow… Where it rose—or whither it rushes… These—are the Western Mystery!

497 He strained my faith— Did he find it supple? Shook my strong trust— Did it then—yield?

539 The Province of the Saved Should be the Art—To save— Through Skill obtained in Themsel… The Science of the Grave

763 He told a homely tale And spotted it with tears— Upon his infant face was set The Cicatrice of years—

163 Tho’ my destiny be Fustian— Hers be damask fine— Tho’ she wear a silver apron— I, a less divine—

679 Conscious am I in my Chamber, Of a shapeless friend— He doth not attest by Posture— Nor Confirm—by Word—

952 A Man may make a Remark— In itself—a quiet thing That may furnish the Fuse unto a… In dormant nature—lain—

677 To be alive—is Power— Existence—in itself— Without a further function— Omnipotence—Enough—

770 I lived on Dread— To Those who know The Stimulus there is In Danger—Other impetus

448 This was a Poet—It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings— And Attar so immense

104 Where I have lost, I softer tread… I sow sweet flower from garden bed… I pause above that vanished head And mourn.

12 The morns are meeker than they wer… The nuts are getting brown— The berry’s cheek is plumper— The Rose is out of town.

To the bright east she flies, Brothers of Paradise Remit her home, Without a change of wings, Or Love’s convenient things,