91 So bashful when I spied her! So pretty—so ashamed! So hidden in her leaflets Lest anybody find—

It dropped so low—in my Regard— I heard it hit the Ground— And go to pieces on the Stones At bottom of my Mind— Yet blamed the Fate that flung it…

206 The Flower must not blame the Bee… That seeketh his felicity Too often at her door— But teach the Footman from Vevay—

952 A Man may make a Remark— In itself—a quiet thing That may furnish the Fuse unto a… In dormant nature—lain—

941 The Lady feeds Her little Bird At rarer intervals— The little Bird would not dissent But meekly recognize

535 She’s happy, with a new Content— That feels to her—like Sacrament— She’s busy—with an altered Care— As just apprenticed to the Air—

11 I never told the buried gold Upon the hill—that lies— I saw the sun—his plunder done Crouch low to guard his prize.

The Savior must have been A docile Gentleman— To come so far so cold a Day For little Fellowmen— The Road to Bethlehem

XXVIII I BRING an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching, next to min… And summon them to drink. Crackling with fever, they essay;

391 A Visitor in Marl— Who influences Flowers— Till they are orderly as Busts— And Elegant—as Glass—