Epigram THIS is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,— The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty.

A Coffin—is a small Domain, Yet able to contain A Citizen of Paradise In it diminished Plane. A Grave—is a restricted Breadth—

404 How many Flowers fail in Wood— Or perish from the Hill— Without the privilege to know That they are Beautiful—

338 I know that He exists. Somewhere—in Silence— He has hid his rare life From our gross eyes.

873 Ribbons of the Year— Multitude Brocade— Worn to Nature’s Party once Then, as flung aside

261 Put up my lute! What of—my Music! Since the sole ear I cared to cha… Passive—as Granite—laps My Music…

XL I NEVER lost as much but twice, And that was in the sod; Twice have I stood a beggar Before the door of God!

Me prove it now—Whoever doubt Me stop to prove it—now— Make haste—the Scruple! Death be… For Opportunity— The River reaches to my feet—