191 The Skies can’t keep their secret… They tell it to the Hills— The Hills just tell the Orchards— And they—the Daffodils!

344 ’Twas the old—road—through pain— That unfrequented—One— With many a turn—and thorn— That stops—at Heaven—

462 Why make it doubt — it hurts it so… So sick — to guess — So strong — to know — So brave — upon its little Bed

707 The Grace—Myself—might not obtain… Confer upon My flower— Refracted but a Countenance— For I—inhabit Her—

163 Tho’ my destiny be Fustian— Hers be damask fine— Tho’ she wear a silver apron— I, a less divine—

852 Apology for Her Be rendered by the Bee— Herself, without a Parliament Apology for Me.

110 Artists wrestled here! Lo, a tint Cashmere! Lo, a Rose! Student of the Year!

314 Nature—sometimes sears a Sapling— Sometimes—scalps a Tree— Her Green People recollect it When they do not die—

Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,