Each life converges to some centre Expressed or still; Exists in every human nature A goal, Admitted scarcely to itself, it ma…

My nosegays are for captives; Dim, long-expectant eyes, Fingers denied the plucking, Patient till paradise. To such, if they should whisper

792 Through the strait pass of sufferi… The Martyrs—even—trod. Their feet—upon Temptations— Their faces—upon God—

412 I read my sentence—steadily— Reviewed it with my eyes, To see that I made no mistake In its extremest clause—

229 A Burdock—clawed my Gown— Not Burdock’s—blame— But mine— Who went too near

811 The Veins of other Flowers The Scarlet Flowers are Till Nature leisure has for Terms As “Branch,” and “Jugular.”

250 I shall keep singing! Birds will pass me On their way to Yellower Climes— Each—with a Robin’s expectation—

785 They have a little Odor—that to m… Is metre—nay—’tis melody— And spiciest at fading—indicate— A Habit—of a Laureate—

How firm Eternity must look To crumbling men like me The only Adamant Estate In all Identity - How mighty to the insecure

903 I hide myself within my flower, That fading from your Vase, You, unsuspecting, feel for me— Almost a loneliness.

390 It’s coming—the postponeless Crea… It gains the Block—and now—it gai… Chooses its latch, from all the ot… Enters—with a “You know Me—Sir”?