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

904 Had I not This, or This, I said, Appealing to Myself, In moment of prosperity— Inadequate—were Life—

LXIII TALK with prudence to a beggar Of “Potosi” and the mines! Reverently to the hungry Of your viands and your wines!

172 ’Tis so much joy! ’Tis so much jo… If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I, Have ventured all upon a throw!

That only lasts an hour How much '— how little '— is Within our power

I had no time to hate, because The grave would hinder me, And life was not so ample I Could finish enmity. Nor had I time to love, but since

294 The Doomed—regard the Sunrise With different Delight— Because—when next it burns abroad They doubt to witness it—

614 In falling Timbers buried— There breathed a Man— Outside—the spades—were plying— The Lungs—within—

954 The Chemical conviction That Nought be lost Enable in Disaster My fractured Trust—

547 I’ve seen a Dying Eye Run round and round a Room— In search of Something—as it seem… Then Cloudier become—

18 The Gentian weaves her fringes— The Maple’s loom is red— My departing blossoms Obviate parade.

198 An awful Tempest mashed the air— The clouds were gaunt, and few— A Black—as of a Spectre’s Cloak Hid Heaven and Earth from view.