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

She sweeps with many-colored broom… And leaves the shreds behind; Oh, housewife in the evening west, Come back, and dust the pond! You dropped a purple ravelling in,

142 Whose are the little beds, I aske… Which in the valleys lie? Some shook their heads, and others… And no one made reply.

857 Uncertain lease—develops lustre On Time Uncertain Grasp, appreciation Of Sum—

501 This World is not Conclusion. A Species stands beyond— Invisible, as Music— But positive, as Sound—

Apparently with no surprise, To any happy flower, The frost beheads it at its play, In accidental power. The blond assassin passes on.

576 I prayed, at first, a little Girl… Because they told me to— But stopped, when qualified to gue… How prayer would feel—to me—

We play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool. The shapes, though, were similar,

111 The Bee is not afraid of me. I know the Butterfly. The pretty people in the Woods Receive me cordially—

127 “Houses”—so the Wise Men tell me— “Mansions”! Mansions must be warm… Mansions cannot let the tears in, Mansions must exclude the storm!

Success is counted sweetest By those who ne’er succeed. To comprehend a nectar Requires sorest need. Not one of all the purple Host