#AmericanWriters
608 Afraid! Of whom am I afraid? Not Death—for who is He? The Porter of my Father’s Lodge As much abasheth me!
632 The Brain—is wider than the Sky— For—put them side by side— The one the other will contain With ease—and You—beside—
116 I had some things that I called m… And God, that he called his, Till, recently a rival Claim Disturbed these amities.
17 Baffled for just a day or two— Embarrassed—not afraid— Encounter in my garden An unexpected Maid.
949 Under the Light, yet under, Under the Grass and the Dirt, Under the Beetle’s Cellar Under the Clover’s Root,
752 So the Eyes accost’—and sunder In an Audience’— Stamped’—occasionally’—forever’— So may Countenance
498 I envy Seas, whereon He rides— I envy Spokes of Wheels Of Chariots, that Him convey— I envy Crooked Hills
46 I keep my pledge. I was not called— Death did not notice me. I bring my Rose.
Luck is not chance It’s Toil Fortune’s expensive smile Is earned The Father of the Mine
Nature, the gentlest mother, Impatient of no child, The feeblest or the waywardest, Her admonition mild In forest and the hill
835 Nature and God—I neither knew Yet Both so well knew me They startled, like Executors Of My identity.
543 I fear a Man of frugal Speech— I fear a Silent Man— Haranguer—I can overtake— Or Babbler—entertain—
789 On a Columnar Self— How ample to rely In Tumult—or Extremity— How good the Certainty
425 Good Morning’—Midnight’— I’m coming Home’— Day’—got tired of Me’— How could I’—of Him?
153 Dust is the only Secret— Death, the only One You cannot find out all about In his “native town.”