403 The Winters are so short— I’m hardly justified In sending all the Birds away— And moving into Pod—

838 Impossibility, like Wine Exhilarates the Man Who tastes it; Possibility Is flavorless—Combine

Our journey had advanced; Our feet were almost come To that odd fork in Being’s road, Eternity by term. Our pace took sudden awe,

22 All these my banners be. I sow my pageantry In May— It rises train by train—

87 A darting fear—a pomp—a tear— A waking on a morn To find that what one waked for, Inhales the different dawn.

176 I’m the little “Heart’s Ease”! I don’t care for pouting skies! If the Butterfly delay Can I, therefore, stay away?

910 Experience is the Angled Road Preferred against the Mind By—Paradox—the Mind itself— Presuming it to lead

Nature, the gentlest mother, Impatient of no child, The feeblest or the waywardest, Her admonition mild In forest and the hill

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