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Them

Themself are all I have
There are two Mays
There are two Ripenings
There came a Day – at Summer’s full
There came a Wind like a Bugle
There comes a warning like a spy
There comes an hour when begging stops
There is a finished feeling
There is a flower that Bees prefer
There is a June when Corn is cut
There is a morn by men unseen
There is a pain – so utter
There is a Shame of Nobleness
There is a solitude of space
There is a strength in proving that it can be borne
There is a word
There is a Zone whose even Years
There is an arid Pleasure
There is another Loneliness
There is another sky
There is a Languor of the Life
There is no Frigate like a Book
There is no Silence in the Earth – so silent
There’s a certain Slant of light
There’s been a Death, in the Opposite House
There’s something quieter than sleep
There’s the Battle of Burgoyne
These are the days that Reindeer love
These are the Nights that Beetles love
These are the Signs to Nature’s Inns
These Fevered Days – to take them to the Forest
These held their Wick above the west
These – saw Visions
These Strangers, in a foreign World
These tested Our Horizon
They ask but our Delight
They called me to the Window, for
They dropped like Flakes
They have a little Odor – that to me
“They have not chosen me,” he said
They leave us with the Infinite
They might not need me – Yet they might
They put Us far apart
They say that “Time assuages”
They shut me up in Prose
They talk as slow as Legends grow
They wont frown always – some sweet Day
This – is the land – the Sunset washes
This Bauble was preferred of Bees
This Chasm, Sweet, opon my life
This Consciousness that is aware
This dirty – little – Heart
This docile one inter
This Dust, and it’s Feature
This heart that broke so long
This is a Blossom of the Brain
This is my letter to the World
This is the place they hoped before
This Me – that walks and works – must die
This Merit hath the Worst
This slow Day moved along
This that would greet – an hour ago
This was a Poet – It is That
This was in the White of the Year
This World is not Conclusion
This quiet Dust was Gentlemen and Ladies
Tho’ I get home how late – how late
Tho’ my destiny be Fustian
Those – dying then
Those Cattle smaller than a Bee
Those fair – fictitious People
Those final Creatures, – who they are
Those not live yet
Those who have been in the Grave the longest
Though the great Waters sleep
Three times – we parted – Breath – and I
Three Weeks passed since I had seen Her
Through lane it lay – thro’ bramble
Through the Dark Sod – as Education
Through the strait pass of suffering
Through those old grounds of memory
Through what transports of Patience
Tie the Strings to my Life, My Lord
Till Death – is narrow Loving
Time does go on
Time feels so vast that were it not
Time’s wily Chargers will not wait
‘T is so much joy! ‘T is so much joy!
‘Tis Anguish grander than Delight
‘Tis customary as we part
‘Tis easier to pity those when dead
‘Tis good – the looking back on Grief
‘Tis little I – could care for Pearls
‘Tis my first night beneath the Sun
‘Tis not that Dying hurts us so
‘Tis not the swaying frame we miss
‘Tis One by One – the Father counts
‘Tis Opposites – entice
‘Tis Seasons since the Dimpled War
‘Tis so appalling – it exhilarates
‘Tis Sunrise – Little Maid – Hast Thou
‘Tis true – They shut me in the Cold
‘Tis whiter than an Indian Pipe
Title divine – is mine


To be alive – is Power
To be forgot by thee
To break so vast a Heart
To die – takes just a little while
To die – without the Dying
To disappear enhances
To do a magnanimous thing
To earn it by disdaining it
To fight aloud is very brave
To fill a Gap
To flee from memory
To hang our head – ostensibly
To hear an Oriole sing
To help our Bleaker Parts
To her derided Home
To his simplicity
To interrupt His Yellow Plan
To know just how He suffered – would be dear
To lose one’s faith – surpass
To lose thee – sweeter than to gain
To love thee Year by Year
To make a prairie it takes
To make One’s Toilette – after Death
To make Routine a Stimulus
To mend each tattered Faith
To my quick ear the Leaves – conferred
To my small Hearth His fire came
To offer brave assistance
To One denied the drink
To own a Susan of my own
To own the Art within the Soul
To pile like Thunder to its close
To put this World down, like a Bundle
To see her is a Picture
To see the Summer Sky
To tell the Beauty would decrease
To the bright east she flies,
To the stanch Dust
To their apartment deep
To this World she returned
To try to speak, and miss the way
To undertake is to achieve
To venerate the simple days
To wait an Hour – is long
To Whom the Mornings stand for Nights
Today or this noon
“Tomorrow” – whose location
Too cold is this
Too few the mornings be
Too happy Time dissolves itself
Too little way the House must lie
Too scanty ’twas to die for you
Touch lightly Nature’s sweet Guitar
Tried always and Condemned by thee
Triumph – may be of several kinds
Trudging to Eden, looking backward
Trust adjust her “Peradventure”
Trust in the Unexpected
Trusty as the stars
Truth – is as old as God
‘Twas a long Parting – but the time
‘Twas awkward, but it fitted me
‘Twas comfort in her Dying Room
‘Twas Crisis – All the length had passed
‘Twas fighting for his Life he was
‘Twas here my summer paused
‘Twas just this time, last year, I died
Twas later when the summer went
‘Twas like a Maelstrom, with a notch
‘Twas Love – not me
‘Twas my one Glory
‘Twas such a little – little boat
‘Twas the old – road – through pain
‘Twas warm – at first – like Us
Twice had Summer her fair Verdure
Two – were immortal twice
Two Lengths has every Day
Two swimmers wrestled on the spar
Two Travellers perishing in Snow
‘Twould ease – a Butterfly

U

Unable are the Loved to die
Uncertain lease – develops lustre
Under the Light, yet under
Undue Significance a starving man attaches
Unfulfilled to Observation
Unit, like Death, for Whom?
Until the Desert knows
Unto a broken heart
Unto like Story – Trouble has enticed me
“Unto Me?” I do not know you
Unto my Books – so good to turn
Unto the Whole – how add?
Unworthy of her Breast
Up Life’s Hill with my little Bundle
Upon a Lilac Sea
Upon Concluded Lives
Upon his Saddle sprung a Bird
Upon the gallows hung a wretch