912 Peace is a fiction of our Faith— The Bells a Winter Night Bearing the Neighbor out of Sound That never did alight.

220 Could I—then—shut the door— Lest my beseeching face—at last— Rejected—be—of Her?

608 Afraid! Of whom am I afraid? Not Death—for who is He? The Porter of my Father’s Lodge As much abasheth me!

475 Doom is the House without the Doo… ’Tis entered from the Sun— And then the Ladder’s thrown away… Because Escape—is done—

444 It feels a shame to be Alive— When Men so brave—are dead— One envies the Distinguished Dust… Permitted—such a Head—

I dreaded that first robin so, But he is mastered now, And I’m accustomed to him grown,— He hurts a little, though. I thought if I could only live

344 ’Twas the old—road—through pain— That unfrequented—One— With many a turn—and thorn— That stops—at Heaven—

To see her is a Picture— To hear her is a Tune— To know her an Intemperance As innocent as June— To know her not—Affliction—

I noticed People disappeared When but a little child - Supposed they visited remote Or settled Regions wild - But did because they died

When Memory is full Put on the perfect Lid - This Morning’s finest syllable Presumptuous Evening said -

“Morning”—means “Milking”—to the… Dawn—to the Teneriffe— Dice—to the Maid— Morning means just Risk—to the Lo… Just revelation—to the Beloved—