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

603 He found my Being—set it up— Adjusted it to place— Then carved his name—upon it— And bade it to the East

949 Under the Light, yet under, Under the Grass and the Dirt, Under the Beetle’s Cellar Under the Clover’s Root,

803 Who Court obtain within Himself Sees every Man a King— And Poverty of Monarchy Is an interior thing—

LXI A LITTLE road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee, Or cart of butterfly.

661 Could I but ride indefinite As doth the Meadow Bee And visit only where I liked And No one visit me

999 Superfluous were the Sun When Excellence be dead He were superfluous every Day For every Day be said

284 The Drop, that wrestles in the Se… Forgets her own locality— As I—toward Thee— She knows herself an incense small…

22 All these my banners be. I sow my pageantry In May— It rises train by train—

402 I pay—in Satin Cash— You did not state—your price— A Petal, for a Paragraph It near as I can guess—

1034 His Bill an Auger is, His Head, a Cap and Frill. He laboreth at every Tree A Worm, His utmost Goal.