366 Although I put away his life— An Ornament too grand For Forehead low as mine, to wear… This might have been the Hand

806 A Planted Life—diversified With Gold and Silver Pain To prove the presence of the Ore In Particles—'tis when

907 Till Death’—is narrow Loving’— The scantest Heart extant Will hold you till your privilege Of Finiteness’—be spent’—

To flee from memory Had we the Wings Many would fly Inured to slower things Birds with surprise

562 Conjecturing a Climate Of unsuspended Suns— Adds poignancy to Winter— The Shivering Fancy turns

612 It would have starved a Gnat— To live so small as I— And yet I was a living Child— With Food’s necessity

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry....

679 Conscious am I in my Chamber, Of a shapeless friend— He doth not attest by Posture— Nor Confirm—by Word—

46 I keep my pledge. I was not called— Death did not notice me. I bring my Rose.