A bird came down the walk: He did not know I saw; He bit an angle-worm in halves And ate the fellow, raw. And then he drank a dew

Not in this world to see his face Sounds long, until I read the pla… Where this is said to be But just the primer to a life Unopened, rare, upon the shelf,

569 I reckon—when I count it all— First—Poets—Then the Sun— Then Summer—Then the Heaven of G… And then—the List is done—

His Heart was darker than the sta… For that there is a morn But in this black Receptacle Can be no Bode of Dawn

921 If it had no pencil Would it try mine— Worn—now—and dull—sweet, Writing much to thee.

945 This is a Blossom of the Brain— A small—italic Seed Lodged by Design or Happening The Spirit fructified—

25 She slept beneath a tree— Remembered but by me. I touched her Cradle mute— She recognized the foot—

855 To own the Art within the Soul The Soul to entertain With Silence as a Company And Festival maintain

Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate Whose table once a Guest but not The second time is set.

600 It troubled me as once I was— For I was once a Child— Concluding how an Atom—fell— And yet the Heavens—held—

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

312 Her—last Poems— Poets ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled Other,