#AmericanWriters
5 I have a Bird in spring Which for myself doth sing— The spring decoys. And as the summer nears—
The Hills in Purple syllables The Day’s Adventures tell To little Groups of Continents Just going Home from School.
“Unto Me?” I do not know you’— Where may be your House? “I am Jesus’—Late of Judea’— Now’—of Paradise"'— Wagons’—have you’—to convey me?
These Fevered Days—to take them t… Where Waters cool around the moss… And shade is all that devastates t… Seems it sometimes this would be a…
556 The Brain, within its Groove Runs evenly—and true— But let a Splinter swerve— ’Twere easier for You—
595 Like Mighty Foot Lights’—burned… At Bases of the Trees’— The far Theatricals of Day Exhibiting’—to These’—
A light exists in spring Not present on the year At any other period. When March is scarcely here A color stands abroad
690 Victory comes late— And is held low to freezing lips— Too rapt with frost To take it—
687 I’ll send the feather from my Hat… Who knows—but at the sight of that My Sovereign will relent? As trinket—worn by faded Child—
Dare you see a Soul at the White… Then crouch within the door— Red—is the Fire’s common tint— But when the vivid Ore Has vanquished Flame’s conditions…
784 Bereaved of all, I went abroad— No less bereaved was I Upon a New Peninsula— The Grave preceded me—
7 The feet of people walking home With gayer sandals go— The Crocus—til she rises The Vassal of the snow—
I years had been from home, And now, before the door, I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before Stare vacant into mine
412 I read my sentence—steadily— Reviewed it with my eyes, To see that I made no mistake In its extremest clause—
154 Except to Heaven, she is nought. Except for Angels—lone. Except to some wide-wandering Bee A flower superfluous blown.