#Americans #Women #XIXCentury
566 A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink— I hunted all the Sand— I caught the Dripping of a Rock And bore it in my Hand—
810 Her Grace is all she has— And that, so least displays— One Art to recognize, must be, Another Art, to praise.
I went to heaven,— ‘T was a small town, Lit with a ruby, Lathed with down. Stiller than the fields
51 I often passed the village When going home from school— And wondered what they did there— And why it was so still—
560 It knew no lapse, nor Diminuation… But large—serene— Burned on—until through Dissoluti… It failed from Men—
A Cloud withdrew from the Sky Superior Glory be But that Cloud and its Auxiliarie… Are forever lost to me Had I but further scanned
438 Forget! The lady with the Amulet Forget she wore it at her Heart Because she breathed against Was Treason twixt?
Warm in her Hand these accents li… While faithful and afar The Grace so awkward for her sake Its fond subjection wear -
Tell all the Truth but tell it sl… Success in Circuit lies Too bright for our infirm Delight The Truth’s superb surprise As Lightning to the Children ease…
741 Drama’s Vitallest Expression is t… That arise and set about Us— Other Tragedy Perish in the Recitation—
907 Till Death’—is narrow Loving’— The scantest Heart extant Will hold you till your privilege Of Finiteness’—be spent’—
We play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool. The shapes, though, were similar,
667 Bloom upon the Mountain—stated— Blameless of a Name— Efflorescence of a Sunset— Reproduced—the same—
312 Her—“last Poems”— Poets—ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled other,
491 While it is alive Until Death touches it While it and I lap one Air Dwell in one Blood
