564 My period had come for Prayer— No other Art—would do— My Tactics missed a rudiment— Creator—Was it you?

The earth has many keys, Where melody is not Is the unknown peninsula. Beauty is nature’s fact. But witness for her land,

217 Savior! I’ve no one else to tell— And so I trouble thee. I am the one forgot thee so— Dost thou remember me?

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.

55 By Chivalries as tiny, A Blossom, or a Book, The seeds of smiles are planted— Which blossom in the dark.

To make a prairie it takes a clove… One clover, and a bee. And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few.

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

We play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool. The shapes, though, were similar,

570 I could die—to know— ’Tis a trifling knowledge— News-Boys salute the Door— Carts—joggle by—

857 Uncertain lease—develops lustre On Time Uncertain Grasp, appreciation Of Sum—

It is an honorable thought, And makes one lift one’s hat, As one encountered gentlefolk Upon a daily street, That we’ve immortal place,