252 I can wade Grief— Whole Pools of it— I’m used to that— But the least push of Joy

Longing is like the Seed That wrestles in the Ground, Believing if it intercede It shall at length be found. The Hour, and the Clime -

I meant to find her when I came; Death had the same design; But the success was his, it seems, And the discomfit mine. I meant to tell her how I longed

957 As One does Sickness over In convalescent Mind, His scrutiny of Chances By blessed Health obscured—

752 So the Eyes accost—and sunder In an Audience— Stamped—occasionally—forever— So may Countenance

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,

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

163 Tho’ my destiny be Fustian— Hers be damask fine— Tho’ she wear a silver apron— I, a less divine—

The dying need but little, dear,— A glass of water’s all, A flower’s unobtrusive face To punctuate the wall, A fan, perhaps, a friend’s regret,

To flee from memory Had we the Wings Many would fly Inured to slower things Birds with surprise

56 If I should cease to bring a Rose Upon a festal day, ‘Twill be because beyond the Rose I have been called away—

669 No Romance sold unto Could so enthrall a Man As the perusal of His Individual One—

264 A Weight with Needles on the poun… To push, and pierce, besides— That if the Flesh resist the Heft… The puncture—coolly tries—