559 It knew no Medicine— It was not Sickness—then— Nor any need of Surgery— And therefore—'twas not Pain—

117 In rags mysterious as these The shining Courtiers go— Veiling the purple, and the plumes… Veiling the ermine so.

557 She hideth Her the last— And is the first, to rise— Her Night doth hardly recompense The Closing of Her eyes—

660 ’Tis good—the looking back on Gri… To re-endure a Day— We thought the Mighty Funeral— Of All Conceived Joy—

101 Will there really be a “Morning”? Is there such a thing as “Day”? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they?

I noticed People disappeared When but a little child - Supposed they visited remote Or settled Regions wild - But did because they died

148 All overgrown by cunning moss, All interspersed with weed, The little cage of “Currer Bell” In quiet “Haworth” laid.

65 I can’t tell you—but you feel it— Nor can you tell me— Saints, with ravished slate and pe… Solve our April Day!

Out of sight? What of that? See the Bird —reach it! Curve by Curve —Sweep by Sweep — Round the Steep Air — Danger! What is that to Her?

89 Some things that fly there be— Birds—Hours—the Bumblebee— Of these no Elegy. Some things that stay there be—

959 A loss of something ever felt I— The first that I could recollect Bereft I was—of what I knew not Too young that any should suspect

991 She sped as Petals of a Rose Offended by the Wind— A frail Aristocrat of Time Indemnity to find—