#Americans #Women #XIXCentury
668 “Nature” is what we see— The Hill—the Afternoon— Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee— Nay—Nature is Heaven—
720 No Prisoner be— Where Liberty— Himself—abide with Thee—
350 They leave us with the Infinite. But He—is not a man— His fingers are the size of fists— His fists, the size of men—
The Snow that never drifts - The transient, fragrant snow That comes a single time a Year Is softly driving now - So thorough in the Tree
899 Herein a Blossom lies— A Sepulchre, between— Cross it, and overcome the Bee— Remain—'tis but a Rind.
366 Although I put away his life— An Ornament too grand For Forehead low as mine, to wear… This might have been the Hand
144 She bore it till the simple veins Traced azure on her hand— Til pleading, round her quiet eyes The purple Crayons stand.
828 The Robin is the One That interrupt the Morn With hurried—few—express Reports When March is scarcely on—
51 I often passed the village When going home from school— And wondered what they did there— And why it was so still—
705 Suspense—is Hostiler than Death— Death—tho’soever Broad, Is just Death, and cannot increas… Suspense—does not conclude –
549 That I did always love I bring thee Proof That till I loved I never lived—Enough—
169 In Ebon Box, when years have flow… To reverently peer, Wiping away the velvet dust Summers have sprinkled there!
28 So has a Daisy vanished From the fields today— So tiptoed many a slipper To Paradise away—
335 ’Tis not that Dying hurts us so— ’Tis Living—hurts us more— But Dying—is a different way— A Kind behind the Door—
81 We should not mind so small a flow… Except it quiet bring Our little garden that we lost Back to the Lawn again.
