394 ’Twas Love’—not me’— Oh punish’—pray’— The Real one died for Thee’— Just Him’—not me’—

782 There is an arid Pleasure— As different from Joy— As Frost is different from Dew— Like element—are they—

548 Death is potential to that Man Who dies—and to his friend— Beyond that—unconspicuous To Anyone but God—

Elysium is as far as to The very nearest Room If in that Room a Friend await Felicity or Doom— What fortitude the Soul contains

34 Garland for Queens, may be— Laurels—for rare degree Of soul or sword. Ah—but remembering me—

Our lives are Swiss— So still—so Cool— Till some odd afternoon The Alps neglect their Curtains And we look farther on!

I never hear the word 'escape’ Without a quicker blood, A sudden expectation, A flying attitude. I never hear of prisons broad

Pain—has an Element of Blank— It cannot recollect When it begun—or if there were A time when it was not— It has no Future—but itself—