410 The first Day’s Night had come— And grateful that a thing So terrible—had been endured— I told my Soul to sing—

A Word dropped careless on a Page May stimulate an eye When folded in perpetual seam The Wrinkled Maker lie Infection in the sentence breeds

439 Undue Significance a starving man… To Food— Far off—He sighs—and therefore—Ho… And therefore—Good—

437 Prayer is the little implement Through which Men reach Where Presence—is denied them. They fling their Speech

560 It knew no lapse, nor Diminuation… But large—serene— Burned on—until through Dissoluti… It failed from Men—

So much of Heaven has gone from E… That there must be a Heaven If only to enclose the Saints To Affidavit given. The Missionary to the Mole

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

770 I lived on Dread— To Those who know The Stimulus there is In Danger—Other impetus

569 I reckon—when I count it all— First—Poets—Then the Sun— Then Summer—Then the Heaven of G… And then—the List is done—

977 Besides this May We know There is Another— How fair

530 You cannot put a Fire out— A Thing that can ignite Can go, itself, without a Fan— Upon the slowest Night—

They shut me up in Prose— As when a little Girl They put me in the Closet— Because they liked me “still”— Still! Could themself have peeped…