368 How sick—to wait—in any place—but… I knew last night—when someone tri… Thinking—perhaps—that I looked ti… Or breaking—almost—with unspoken p…

To die—takes just a little while— They say it doesn't hurt— It's only fainter—by degrees— And then—it's out of sight— A darker Ribbon—for a Day—

563 I could not prove the Years had f… Yet confident they run Am I, from symptoms that are past And Series that are done—

395 Reverse cannot befall That fine Prosperity Whose Sources are interior— As soon—Adversity

470 I am alive—I guess— The Branches on my Hand Are full of Morning Glory— And at my finger’s end—

31 Summer for thee, grant I may be When Summer days are flown! Thy music still, when Whipporwill And Oriole—are done!

994 Partake as doth the Bee, Abstemiously. The Rose is an Estate— In Sicily.

830 To this World she returned. But with a tinge of that— A Compound manner, As a Sod

575 “Heaven” has different Signs—to m… Sometimes, I think that Noon Is but a symbol of the Place— And when again, at Dawn,

The Beggar at the Door for Fame Were easily supplied But Bread is that Diviner thing Disclosed to be denied

The grave my little cottage is, Where 'Keeping house’ for thee I make my parlor orderly And lay the marble tea. For two divided, briefly,

200 I stole them from a Bee— Because—Thee— Sweet plea— He pardoned me!