#Americans #Women #XIXCentury
Her final summer was it, And yet we guessed it not; If tenderer industriousness Pervaded her, we thought A further force of life
How lonesome the Wind must feel N… When people have put out the Ligh… And everything that has an Inn Closes the shutter and goes in— How pompous the Wind must feel No…
LXXXVIII HEAVEN is what I cannot reach! The apple on the tree, Provided it do hopeless hang, That “heaven” is, to me.
XXVII BECAUSE I could not stop for D… He kindly stopped for me— The Carriage held but just Oursel… And Immortality.
186 What shall I do—it whimpers so— This little Hound within the Hear… All day and night with bark and st… And yet, it will not go—
655 Without this—there is nought— All other Riches be As is the Twitter of a Bird— Heard opposite the Sea—
23 I had a guinea golden— I lost it in the sand— And tho’ the sum was simple And pounds were in the land—
XLVI A THOUGHT went up my mind to—d… That I have had before, But did not finish,—some way back, I could not fix the year,
319 Of Bronze—and Blaze— The North—tonight— So adequate—it forms— So preconcerted with itself—
690 Victory comes late— And is held low to freezing lips— Too rapt with frost To take it—
606 The Trees like Tassels—hit—and sw… There seemed to rise a Tune From Miniature Creatures Accompanying the Sun—
XXIII A bird came down the walk: He did not know I saw; He bit an angle-worm in halves And ate the fellow, raw.
LXI A LITTLE road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee, Or cart of butterfly.
His bill an auger is, His head, a cap and frill. He laboreth at every tree,— A worm his utmost goal.
There’s a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons— That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes— Heavenly Hurt, it gives us—