422 More Life—went out—when He went Than Ordinary Breath— Lit with a finer Phosphor— Requiring in the Quench—

XXIX THE nearest dream recedes, unreal… The heaven we chase Like the June bee Before the school—boy

191 The Skies can’t keep their secret… They tell it to the Hills— The Hills just tell the Orchards— And they—the Daffodils!

924 Love—is that later Thing than Dea… More previous—than Life— Confirms it at its entrance—And Usurps it—of itself—

My River runs to thee’— Blue Sea! Wilt welcome me? My River wait reply’— Oh Sea’—look graciously’— I’ll fetch thee Brooks

789 On a Columnar Self— How ample to rely In Tumult—or Extremity— How good the Certainty

Of so divine a Loss We enter but the Gain, Indemnity for Loneliness That such a Bliss has been.

154 Except to Heaven, she is nought. Except for Angels—lone. Except to some wide-wandering Bee A flower superfluous blown.

172 ’Tis so much joy! ’Tis so much jo… If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I, Have ventured all upon a throw!

13 Sleep is supposed to be By souls of sanity The shutting of the eye. Sleep is the station grand