Is tenderest, I think—
Because ’tis unsustained
By stint—Rewarded Work—
Has impetus of Gain—
And impetus of Goal—
There is no Diligence like that
That knows not an Until—
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417
Out of sound—Out of sight—‘Happy’? Which is wiser—You, or the Wind?‘Conscious’? Won’t you ask that—Of the low Ground?‘Homesick’? Many met it—Even through them—ThisCannot testify—Themself—as dumb—
233
Tho’ Serfs—supply the Oil—It matters not the busy Wick—At her phosphoric toil!The Slave—forgets—to fill—The Lamp—burns golden—on—Unconscious that the oil is out—As that the Slave—is gone.
907
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—
227
Such an one—to say—On his babbling—Berry—lips—As should sound—to me—Were my Ear—as near his nest—As my thought—today—As should sound—‘Forbid us not’—Some like ‘Emily.’
762
‘Twas Murder by degrees—A Thrust—and then for Life a chance—The Bliss to cauterize—The Cat reprieves the MouseShe eases from her teethJust long enough for Hope to tease—Then mashes it to death—‘Tis Life’s award—to die—Contenteder if once—Than dying half—then rallyingFor consciouser Eclipse—
When Memory is full
This Morning’s finest syllablePresumptuous Evening said –