All men for Honor hardest work But are not known to earn - Paid after they have ceased to wor… In Infamy or Urn -

The Butterfly in honored Dust Assuredly will lie But none will pass the Catacomb So chastened as the Fly -

A little road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee, Or cart of butterfly. If town it have, beyond itself,

897 How fortunate the Grave— All Prizes to obtain— Successful certain, if at last, First Suitor not in vain.

Not “Revelation”—'tis—that waits, But our unfurnished eyes—

553 One Crucifixion is recorded—only— How many be Is not affirmed of Mathematics— Or History—

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—

727 Precious to Me—She still shall be… Though She forget the name I bear… The fashion of the Gown I wear— The very Color of My Hair—

551 There is a Shame of Nobleness— Confronting Sudden Pelf— A finer Shame of Ecstasy— Convicted of Itself—

104 Where I have lost, I softer tread… I sow sweet flower from garden bed… I pause above that vanished head And mourn.

413 I never felt at Home–Below– And in the Handsome Skies I shall not feel at Home–I know– I don’t like Paradise–

453 Love — thou art high — I cannot climb thee — But, were it Two — Who knows but we —