To my quick ear the leaves conferr… The bushes they were bells; I could not find a privacy From Nature’s sentinels. In cave if I presumed to hide,

Death leaves Us homesick, who beh… Except that it is gone Are ignorant of its Concern As if it were not born. Through all their former Places,…

74 A Lady red—amid the Hill Her annual secret keeps! A Lady white, within the Field In placid Lily sleeps!

669 No Romance sold unto Could so enthrall a Man As the perusal of His Individual One—

“Heaven” has different Signs—to m… Sometimes, I think that Noon Is but a symbol of the Place— And when again, at Dawn, A mighty look runs round the Worl…

312 Her—last Poems— Poets ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled Other,

470 I am alive—I guess— The Branches on my Hand Are full of Morning Glory— And at my finger’s end—

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