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That sacred Closet when you sweep — Entitled “Memory” — Select a reverential Broom — And do it silently. ‘Twill be a Labor of surprise — Besides Identity Of other Interlocutors A probability — August the Dust of that Domain…

That odd old man is dead a year — We miss his stated Hat. ‘Twas such an evening bright and stiff His faded lamp went out. Who miss his antiquated Wick — Are any hoar for him? Waits any indurated…

That Love is all there is, Is all we know of Love; It is enough, the freight should be Proportioned to the groove.

That it will never come again Is what makes life so sweet. Believing what we don’t believe Does not exhilarate. That if it be, it be at best An ablative estate — This instigates an appetite Precisely opposite.

Than Heaven more remote, For Heaven is the root, But these the flitted seed. More flown indeed Than ones that never were, Or those that hide, and are. What madness, by their side, A vision to provide Of future days…

Tell as a Marksman — were forgotten Tell — this Day endures Ruddy as that coeval Apple The Tradition bears — Fresh as Mankind that humble story Though a statelier Tale Grown in the Repetition hoary Scarcely would prevail —…

Talk not to me of Summer Trees The foliage of the mind A Tabernacle is for Birds Of no corporeal kind And winds do go that way at noon To their Ethereal Homes Whose Bugles call the least of us…

Taken from men — this morning — Carried by men today — Met by the Gods with banners — Who marshalled her away — One little maid — from playmates — One little mind from school — There must be…

Take all away from me, but leave me Ecstasy, And I am richer then than all my Fellow Men — Ill it becometh me to dwell so wealthily When at my very Door are those possessing more, In abject poverty…

The Butterfly’s Numidian Gown With spots of Burnish roasted on Is proof against the Sun Yet prone to shut its spotted Fan And panting on a Clover lean As if it were undone —