#Americans #Women #XIXCentury
830 To this World she returned. But with a tinge of that— A Compound manner, As a Sod
623 It was too late for Man— But early, yet, for God— Creation—impotent to help— But Prayer—remained—Our Side—
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.
880 The Bird must sing to earn the Cr… What merit have the Tune No Breakfast if it guaranty The Rose content may bloom
671 She dwelleth in the Ground— Where Daffodils—abide— Her Maker—Her Metropolis— The Universe—Her Maid—
696 Their Height in Heaven comforts n… Their Glory—nought to me— ’Twas best imperfect—as it was— I’m finite—I can’t see—
This was a Poet —It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings — And Attar so immense From the familiar species
13 Sleep is supposed to be By souls of sanity The shutting of the eye. Sleep is the station grand
366 Although I put away his life— An Ornament too grand For Forehead low as mine, to wear… This might have been the Hand
200 I stole them from a Bee— Because—Thee— Sweet plea— He pardoned me!
874 They won’t frown always—some sweet… When I forget to tease— They’ll recollect how cold I look… And how I just said “Please.”
233 The Lamp burns sure—within— Tho’ Serfs—supply the Oil— It matters not the busy Wick— At her phosphoric toil!
808 So set its Sun in Thee What Day be dark to me— What Distance—far— So I the Ships may see
789 On a Columnar Self— How ample to rely In Tumult—or Extremity— How good the Certainty
471 A Night—there lay the Days betwee… The Day that was Before— And Day that was Behind—were one— And now—'twas Night—was here—
