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The Body grows without— The more convenient way— That if the Spirit—like to hide Its Temple stands, alway, Ajar—secure—inviting— It never did betray The Soul that asked its shelter In solemn honesty

The Black Berry—wears a Thorn in his side— But no Man heard Him cry— He offers His Berry, just the same To Partridge—and to Boy— He sometimes holds upon the Fence— Or struggles to a Tree— Or clasps a Rock,…

The Birds reported from the South— A News express to Me— A spicy Charge, My little Posts— But I am deaf—Today— The Flowers—appealed—a timid Throng— I reinforced the Door— Go blossom for the Bees—I said— And trouble Me—no More— The…

The Birds begun at Four o’clock— Their period for Dawn— A Music numerous as space— But neighboring as Noon— I could not count their Force— Their Voices did expend As Brook by Brook bestows itself To multiply the Pond. Their…

The Bird must sing to earn the Crumb What merit have the Tune No Breakfast if it guaranty The Rose content may bloom To gain renown of Lady’s Drawer But if the Lady come But once a Century, the Rose…

The Bible is an antique Volume— Written by faded men At the suggestion of Holy Spectres— Subjects—Bethlehem— Eden—the ancient Homestead— Satan—the Brigadier— Judas—the Great Defaulter— David—the Troubadour— Sin—a distinguished Precipice Others must resist— Boys that “believe” are very lonesome— Other…

The Beggar Lad—dies early— It’s Somewhat in the Cold— And Somewhat in the Trudging feet— And haply, in the World— The Cruel—smiling—bowing World— That took its Cambric Way— Nor heard the timid cry for “Bread”— “Sweet Lady—Charity”— Among Redeemed Children…

The Bee is not afraid of me. I know the Butterfly. The pretty people in the Woods Receive me cordially— The Brooks laugh louder when I come— The Breezes madder play; Wherefore mine eye thy silver mists, Wherefore, Oh Summer’s…

The Battle fought between the Soul And No Man—is the One Of all the Battles prevalent— By far the Greater One— No News of it is had abroad— Its Bodiless Campaign Establishes, and terminates— Invisible—Unknown— Nor History—record it— As Legions…

The Angle of a Landscape— That every time I wake— Between my Curtain and the Wall Upon an ample Crack— Like a Venetian—waiting— Accosts my open eye— Is just a Bough of Apples— Held slanting, in the Sky— The Pattern…