646 I think to Live—may be a Bliss To those who dare to try— Beyond my limit to conceive— My lip—to testify—

930 There is a June when Corn is cut And Roses in the Seed— A Summer briefer than the first But tenderer indeed

78 A poor—torn heart—a tattered heart… That sat it down to rest— Nor noticed that the Ebbing Day Flowed silver to the West—

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

The day came slow, till five o’clo… Then sprang before the hills, Like hindered rubies, or the light… A sudden musket spills. The purple could not keep the east…

991 She sped as Petals of a Rose Offended by the Wind— A frail Aristocrat of Time Indemnity to find—

232 The Sun—just touched the Morning— The Morning—Happy thing— Supposed that He had come to dwel… And Life would all be Spring!

535 She’s happy, with a new Content— That feels to her—like Sacrament— She’s busy—with an altered Care— As just apprenticed to the Air—

522 Had I presumed to hope— The loss had been to Me A Value—for the Greatness’ Sake— As Giants—gone away—

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