She died--this was the way she died;And when her breath was done,Took up her simple wardrobeAnd started for the sun.Her little figure at the gateThe angels must have spied,Since I could never find herUpon the mortal side.

Each life converges to some centre expressed or still . . .

Her breast is fit for pearls,But I was not a "Diver" - Her brow is fit for thronesBut I have not a crest,Her heart is fit for home-I- a Sparrow- build thereSweet of twigs and twineMy perennial nest.

Tell the truth, but tell it slant.

The Soul selects her own Society — Then — shuts the Door — To her divine Majority — Present no more —

open me carefully

WhenContinentsexpireThe Giantsthey discarded —arePromotedto endure —

I think of love, and you, and my heart grows full and warm, and my breath stands still.

Oh my darling one, how long you wander from me, how weary I grow of waiting and looking, and calling for you; sometimes I shut my eyes, and shut my heart towards you, and try hard to forget you because you grieve me so, but you'll never go away, oh you never will.