6 Frequently the wood are pink— Frequently are brown. Frequently the hills undress Behind my native town.

551 There is a Shame of Nobleness— Confronting Sudden Pelf— A finer Shame of Ecstasy— Convicted of Itself—

321 Of all the Sounds despatched abro… There’s not a Charge to me Like that old measure in the Boug… That phraseless Melody—

870 Finding is the first Act The second, loss, Third, Expedition for The “Golden Fleece”

A little road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee, Or cart of butterfly. If town it have, beyond itself,

34 Garland for Queens, may be— Laurels—for rare degree Of soul or sword. Ah—but remembering me—

A House upon the Height— That Wagon never reached— No Dead, were ever carried down— No Peddler’s Cart—approached— Whose Chimney never smoked—

Elysium is as far as to The very nearest Room If in that Room a Friend await Felicity or Doom— What fortitude the Soul contains

427 I’ll clutch—and clutch— Next—One—Might be the golden touc… Could take it— Diamonds—Wait—

141 Some, too fragile for winter winds The thoughtful grave encloses— Tenderly tucking them in from fros… Before their feet are cold.