468 The Manner of its Death When Certain it must die— ’Tis deemed a privilege to choose— ’Twas Major Andre’s Way—

I watched the Moon around the Hou… Until upon a Pane— She stopped—a Traveller’s privile… And there upon I gazed—as at a stranger—

134 Perhaps you’d like to buy a flower… But I could never sell— If you would like to borrow, Until the Daffodil

607 Of nearness to her sundered Thing… The Soul has special times— When Dimness—looks the Oddity— Distinctness—easy—se ems—

Renunciation—is a piercing Virtue… The letting go A Presence—for an Expectation— Not now— The putting out of Eyes—

560 It knew no lapse, nor Diminuation… But large—serene— Burned on—until through Dissoluti… It failed from Men—

634 You’ll know Her—by Her Foot— The smallest Gamboge Hand With Fingers—where the Toes shoul… Would more affront the Sand—

540 I took my Power in my Hand— And went against the World— ’Twas not so much as David—had— But I—was twice as bold—

To flee from memory Had we the Wings Many would fly Inured to slower things Birds with surprise

895 A Cloud withdrew from the Sky Superior Glory be But that Cloud and its Auxiliarie… Are forever lost to me

843 I made slow Riches but my Gain Was steady as the Sun And every Night, it numbered more Than the preceding One

41 I robbed the Woods— The trusting Woods. The unsuspecting Trees Brought out their Burs and mosses