724 It’s easy to invent a Life— God does it—every Day— Creation—but the Gambol Of His Authority—

915 Faith—is the Pierless Bridge Supporting what We see Unto the Scene that We do not— Too slender for the eye

1670 In Winter in my Room I came upon a Worm— Pink, lank and warm— But as he was a worm

1068 Further in Summer than the Birds Pathetic from the Grass A minor Nation celebrates Its unobtrusive Mass.

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

588 I cried at Pity—not at Pain— I heard a Woman say “Poor Child”—and something in her… Convicted me—of me—

’T IS so much joy! ’T is so much… If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I Have ventured all upon a throw; Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so

147 Bless God, he went as soldiers, His musket on his breast— Grant God, he charge the bravest Of all the martial blest!

206 The Flower must not blame the Bee… That seeketh his felicity Too often at her door— But teach the Footman from Vevay—

A House upon the Height— That Wagon never reached— No Dead, were ever carried down— No Peddler’s Cart—approached— Whose Chimney never smoked—

348 I would not paint—a picture— I’d rather be the One It’s bright impossibility To dwell—delicious—on—