#AmericanWriters
355 ’Tis Opposites—entice— Deformed Men—ponder Grace— Bright fires—the Blanketless— The Lost—Day’s face—
The cricket sang, And set the sun, And workmen finished, one by one, Their seam the day upon. The low grass loaded with the dew,
394 ’Twas Love’—not me’— Oh punish’—pray’— The Real one died for Thee’— Just Him’—not me’—
We play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool. The shapes, though, were similar,
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,
The wind tapped like a tired man, And like a host, ‘Come in,’ I boldly answered; entered then My residence within A rapid, footless guest,
402 I pay—in Satin Cash— You did not state—your price— A Petal, for a Paragraph It near as I can guess—
385 Smiling back from Coronation May be Luxury— On the Heads that started with us… Being’s Peasantry—
962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—
The Mushroom is the Elf of Plant… At Evening, it is not At Morning, in a Truffled Hut It stop opon a Spot As if it tarried always
565 One Anguish—in a Crowd— A Minor thing—it sounds— And yet, unto the single Doe Attempted of the Hounds
1100 The last Night that She lived It was a Common Night Except the Dying—this to Us Made Nature different
434 To love thee Year by Year— May less appear Than sacrifice, and cease— However, dear,
84 Her breast is fit for pearls, But I was not a “Diver”— Her brow is fit for thrones But I have not a crest.
376 Of Course—I prayed— And did God Care? He cared as much as on the Air A Bird—had stamped her foot—