198 An awful Tempest mashed the air— The clouds were gaunt, and few— A Black—as of a Spectre’s Cloak Hid Heaven and Earth from view.

779 The Service without Hope— Is tenderest, I think— Because ’tis unsustained By stint—Rewarded Work—

Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,

252 I can wade Grief— Whole Pools of it— I’m used to that— But the least push of Joy

It was not death, for I stood up, And all the dead lie down; It was not night, for all the bell… Put out their tongues, for noon. It was not frost, for on my flesh

607 Of nearness to her sundered Thing… The Soul has special times— When Dimness—looks the Oddity— Distinctness—easy—se ems—

276 Many a phrase has the English lan… I have heard but one— Low as the laughter of the Cricke… Loud, as the Thunder’s Tongue—

There is another sky, Ever serene and fair, And there is another sunshine, Though it be darkness there; Never mind faded forests, Austin,

901 Sweet, to have had them lost For news that they be saved— The nearer they departed Us The nearer they, restored,

930 There is a June when Corn is cut And Roses in the Seed— A Summer briefer than the first But tenderer indeed

The Devil—had he fidelity Would be the best friend— Because he has ability— But Devils cannot mend— Perfidy is the virtue