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The scantest Heart extantWill hold you till your privilegeOf Finiteness—be spent—But He whose loss procures youSuch Destitution thatYour Life too abject for itselfThenceforward imitate—Until—Resemblance perfect—Yourself, for His pursuitDelight of Nature—abdicate—Exhibit Love—somewhat—

To imitate these Neighbors fleetIn awe and innocence, were meet.

Poets—ended—Silver—perished—with her Tongue—Not on Record—bubbled other,Flute—or Woman—So divine—Not unto its Summer—MorningRobin—uttered Half the Tune—Gushed too free for the Adoring—From the Anglo-Florentine—Late—the Praise—‘Tis dull—conferringOn the Head too High to Crown—Diadem—or Ducal Showing—Be its Grave—sufficient sign—Nought—that We—No Poet’s Kinsman—Suffocate—with easy woe—What, and if, Ourself a Bridegroom—Put Her down—in Italy?

When We stop to Die—We want the Dew—then—Honors—taste dry—Flags—vex a Dying face—But the least FanStirred by a friend’s Hand—Cools—like the Rain—Mine be the MinistryWhen they Thirst comes—And Hybla Balms—Dews of Thessaly, to fetch—

When first a sombre Girl—I read that Foreign Lady—The Dark—felt beautiful—And whether it was noon at night—Or only Heaven—at Noon—For very Lunacy of LightI had not power to tell—The Bees—became as Butterflies—The Butterflies—as Swans—Approached—and spurned the narrow Grass—And just the meanest TunesThat Nature murmured to herselfTo keep herself in Cheer—I took for Giants—practisingTitanic Opera—The Days—to…

A small—italic SeedLodged by Design or HappeningThe Spirit fructified—Shy as the Wind of his ChambersSwift as a Freshet’s TongueSo of the Flower of the SoulIts process is unknown.When it is found, a few rejoiceThe Wise convey it HomeCarefully cherishing the spotIf other Flower become.When it is lost, that Day shall beThe Funeral of God,Upon his…