#AmericanWriters
Death leaves Us homesick, who beh… Except that it is gone Are ignorant of its Concern As if it were not born. Through all their former Places,…
319 Of Bronze — and Blaze — The North — tonight — So adequate — it forms — So preconcerted with itself —
962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—
649 Her Sweet turn to leave the Homes… Came the Darker Way— Carriages—Be Sure—and Guests—too… But for Holiday
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,
45 There’s something quieter than sle… Within this inner room! It wears a sprig upon its breast— And will not tell its name.
843 I made slow Riches but my Gain Was steady as the Sun And every Night, it numbered more Than the preceding One
86 South Winds jostle them— Bumblebees come— Hover—hesitate— Dri nk, and are gone—
597 It always felt to me—a wrong To that Old Moses—done— To let him see—the Canaan— Without the entering—
655 Without this—there is nought— All other Riches be As is the Twitter of a Bird— Heard opposite the Sea—
120 If this is “fading” Oh let me immediately “fade”! If this is “dying” Bury me, in such a shroud of red!
I saw the wind within her I knew it blew for me '— But she must buy my shelter I asked Humility
645 Bereavement in their death to feel Whom We have never seen— A Vital Kinsmanship import Our Soul and theirs—between—
453 Love—thou art high— I cannot climb thee— But, were it Two— Who know but we—
443 I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl— Life’s little duties do—precisely— As the very least Were infinite—to me—