I have no life but this, To lead it here; Nor any death, but lest Dispelled from there; Nor tie to earths to come,

GLEE! the great storm is over! Four have recovered the land; Forty gone down together Into the boiling sand. Ring, for the scant salvation!

547 I’ve seen a Dying Eye Run round and round a Room— In search of Something—as it seem… Then Cloudier become—

It struck me every day The lightning was as new As if the cloud that instant slit And let the fire through. It burned me in the night,

904 Had I not This, or This, I said, Appealing to Myself, In moment of prosperity— Inadequate—were Life—

She sweeps with many-colored broom… And leaves the shreds behind; Oh, housewife in the evening west, Come back, and dust the pond! You dropped a purple ravelling in,

824 [first version] The Wind begun to knead the Grass… As Women do a Dough— He flung a Hand full at the Plain…

444 It feels a shame to be Alive— When Men so brave—are dead— One envies the Distinguished Dust… Permitted—such a Head—

843 I made slow Riches but my Gain Was steady as the Sun And every Night, it numbered more Than the preceding One

989 Gratitude—is not the mention Of a Tenderness, But its still appreciation Out of Plumb of Speech.