330 The Juggler’s Hat her Country is… The Mountain Gorse—the Bee’s!

726 We thirst at first—’tis Nature’s… And later—when we die— A little Water supplicate— Of fingers going by—

262 The lonesome for they know not Wh… The Eastern Exiles—be— Who strayed beyond the Amber line Some madder Holiday—

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

884 As Everywhere of Silver With Ropes of Sand To keep it from effacing The Track called Land.

607 Of nearness to her sundered Thing… The Soul has special times— When Dimness—looks the Oddity— Distinctness—easy—se ems—

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

430 It would never be Common—more—I s… Difference—had begun— Many a bitterness—had been— But that old sort—was done—

394 ’Twas Love’—not me’— Oh punish’—pray’— The Real one died for Thee’— Just Him’—not me’—

506 He touched me, so I live to know That such a day, permitted so, I groped upon his breast— It was a boundless place to me

99 New feet within my garden go— New fingers stir the sod— A Troubadour upon the Elm Betrays the solitude.