150 She died—this was the way she died… And when her breath was done Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun—

To make a prairie it takes a clove… One clover, and a bee. And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few.

797 By my Window have I for Scenery Just a Sea—with a Stem— If the Bird and the Farmer—deem i… The Opinion will serve—for them—

The brain within its groove Runs evenly and true; But let a splinter swerve, ‘T were easier for you To put the water back

827 The Only News I know Is Bulletins all Day From Immortality. The Only Shows I see—

556 The Brain, within its Groove Runs evenly—and true— But let a Splinter swerve— ’Twere easier for You—

665 Dropped into the Ether Acre— Wearing the Sod Gown— Bonnet of Everlasting Laces— Brooch—frozen on—

845 Be Mine the Doom— Sufficient Fame— To perish in Her Hand!

Dying at my music! Bubble! Bubble! Hold me till the Octave’s run! Quick! Burst the Windows! Ritardando!

879 Each Second is the last Perhaps, recalls the Man Just measuring unconsciousness The Sea and Spar between.

242 When we stand on the tops of Thin… And like the Trees, look down— The smoke all cleared away from it… And Mirrors on the scene—

Whether they have forgotten Or are forgetting now Or never remembered - Safer not to know - Miseries of conjecture

204 A slash of Blue— A sweep of Gray— Some scarlet patches on the way, Compose an Evening Sky—