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

468 The Manner of its Death When Certain it must die— ’Tis deemed a privilege to choose— ’Twas Major Andre’s Way—

392 Through the Dark Sod—as Educatio… The Lily passes sure— Feels her white foot—no trepidatio… Her faith—no fear—

264 A Weight with Needles on the poun… To push, and pierce, besides— That if the Flesh resist the Heft… The puncture—coolly tries—

724 It’s easy to invent a Life— God does it—every Day— Creation—but the Gambol Of His Authority—

989 Gratitude—is not the mention Of a Tenderness, But its still appreciation Out of Plumb of Speech.

5 I have a Bird in spring Which for myself doth sing— The spring decoys. And as the summer nears—

887 We outgrow love, like other things And put it in the Drawer— Till it an Antique fashion shows— Like Costumes Grandsires wore.

671 She dwelleth in the Ground— Where Daffodils—abide— Her Maker—Her Metropolis— The Universe—Her Maid—

898 How happy I was if I could forget To remember how sad I am Would be an easy adversity But the recollecting of Bloom

798 She staked her Feathers—Gained an… Debated—Rose again— This time—beyond the estimate Of Envy, or of Men—