#AmericanWriters
425 Good Morning’—Midnight’— I’m coming Home’— Day’—got tired of Me’— How could I’—of Him?
94 Angels, in the early morning May be seen the Dews among, Stooping—plucking—smiling&m da… Do the Buds to them belong?
884 As Everywhere of Silver With Ropes of Sand To keep it from effacing The Track called Land.
A Coffin—is a small Domain, Yet able to contain A Citizen of Paradise In it diminished Plane. A Grave—is a restricted Breadth—
168 If the foolish, call them “flowers… Need the wiser, tell? If the Savants “Classify” them It is just as well!
89 Some things that fly there be— Birds—Hours—the Bumblebee— Of these no Elegy. Some things that stay there be—
I went to heaven,— ‘T was a small town, Lit with a ruby, Lathed with down. Stiller than the fields
855 To own the Art within the Soul The Soul to entertain With Silence as a Company And Festival maintain
The thought beneath so slight a fi… Is more distincly seen,— As laces just reveal the surge, Or mists the Apennine.
‘Heavenly Father’ - take to thee The supreme iniquity Fashioned by thy candid Hand In a moment contraband - Though to trust us - seems to us
850 I sing to use the Waiting My Bonnet but to tie And shut the Door unto my House No more to do have I
763 He told a homely tale And spotted it with tears— Upon his infant face was set The Cicatrice of years—
44 If she had been the Mistletoe And I had been the Rose— How gay upon your table My velvet life to close—
990 Not all die early, dying young— Maturity of Fate Is consummated equally In Ages, or a Night—
878 The Sun is gay or stark According to our Deed. If Merry, He is merrier— If eager for the Dead