866 Fame is the tine that Scholars le… Upon their Setting Names— The Iris not of Occident That disappears as comes—

Who were “the Father and the Son” We pondered when a child, And what had they to do with us And when portentous told With inference appalling

529 I’m sorry for the Dead—Today— It’s such congenial times Old Neighbors have at fences— It’s time o’ year for Hay.

I cannot live with You— It would be Life— And Life is over there— Behind the Shelf The Sexton keeps the Key to—

1670 In Winter in my Room I came upon a Worm— Pink, lank and warm— But as he was a worm

496 As far from pity, as complaint— As cool to speech—as stone— As numb to Revelation As if my Trade were Bone—

265 Where Ships of Purple—gently toss… On Seas of Daffodil— Fantastic Sailors—mingle— And then—the Wharf is still!

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

617 Don’t put up my Thread and Needle… I’ll begin to Sew When the Birds begin to whistle— Better Stitches—so—

1000 The Fingers of the Light Tapped soft upon the Town With “I am great and cannot wait So therefore let me in.”

153 Dust is the only Secret— Death, the only One You cannot find out all about In his “native town.”