#AmericanWriters
7 The feet of people walking home With gayer sandals go— The Crocus—til she rises The Vassal of the snow—
936 This Dust, and its Feature— Accredited—Today—Will in a s… Cease to identify— This Mind, and its measure—
Nature the gentlest mother is, Impatient of no child, The feeblest of the waywardest. Her admonition mild In forest and the hill
990 Not all die early, dying young— Maturity of Fate Is consummated equally In Ages, or a Night—
To die—takes just a little while— They say it doesn’t hurt— It’s only fainter—by degrees— And then—it’s out of sight— A darker Ribbon—for a Day—
LV MY country need not change her go… Her triple suit as sweet As when ’t was cut at Lexington, And first pronounced “a fit.”
359 I gained it so— By Climbing slow— By Catching at the Twigs that gro… Between the Bliss—and me—
366 Although I put away his life— An Ornament too grand For Forehead low as mine, to wear… This might have been the Hand
Death is like the insect Menacing the tree, Competent to kill it, But decoyed may be. Bait it with the balsam,
133 As Children bid the Guest “Good… And then reluctant turn— My flowers raise their pretty lips… Then put their nightgowns on.
The Savior must have been A docile Gentleman— To come so far so cold a Day For little Fellowmen— The Road to Bethlehem
If all the griefs I am to have Would only come today, I am so happy I believe They’d laugh and run away. If all the joys I am to have
For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ectasty. For each beloved hour
155 The Murmur of a Bee A Witchcraft—yieldeth me— If any ask me why— ’Twere easier to die—
I never saw a moor; I never saw the sea, Yet know I how the heather looks And what a billow be. I never spoke with God,