780 The Truth—is stirless— Other force—may be presumed to mov… This—then—is best for confidence— When oldest Cedars swerve—

704 672 No matter—now—Sweet— But when I’m Earl— Won’t you wish you’d spoken

556 The Brain, within its Groove Runs evenly—and true— But let a Splinter swerve— ’Twere easier for You—

A Word dropped careless on a Page May stimulate an eye When folded in perpetual seam The Wrinkled Maker lie Infection in the sentence breeds

300 ‘Morning’—means 'Milking’—to the… Dawn’—to the Teneriffe’— Dice’—to the Maid’— Morning means just Risk’—to the L…

52 Whether my bark went down at sea— Whether she met with gales— Whether to isles enchanted She bent her docile sails—

Who were “the Father and the Son” We pondered when a child, And what had they to do with us And when portentous told With inference appalling

604 Unto my Books—so good to turn— Far ends of tired Days— It half endears the Abstinence— And Pain—is missed—in Praise—

968 Fitter to see Him, I may be For the long Hindrance—Grace—to… With Summers, and with Winters, g… Some passing Year—A trait bestow

54 If I should die, And you should live— And time should gurgle on— And morn should beam—

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry....