#AmericanWriters
312 Her—“last Poems”— Poets—ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled other,
736 Have any like Myself Investigating March, New Houses on the Hill descried— And possibly a Church—
7 The feet of people walking home With gayer sandals go— The Crocus—til she rises The Vassal of the snow—
923 How the Waters closed above Him We shall never know— How He stretched His Anguish to… That—is covered too—
Rearrange a 'Wife’s’ affection! When they dislocate my Brain! Amputate my freckled Bosom! Make me bearded like a man! Blush, my spirit, in thy Fastness…
981 As Sleigh Bells seem in summer Or Bees, at Christmas show— So fairy—so fictitious The individuals do
820 All Circumstances are the Frame In which His Face is set— All Latitudes exist for His Sufficient Continent—
The grave my little cottage is, Where 'Keeping house’ for thee I make my parlor orderly And lay the marble tea. For two divided, briefly,
373 I’m saying every day “If I should be a Queen, tomorrow… I’d do this way— And so I deck, a little,
130 These are the days when Birds com… A very few—a Bird or two— To take a backward look. These are the days when skies resu…
556 The Brain, within its Groove Runs evenly—and true— But let a Splinter swerve— ’Twere easier for You—
It stole along so stealthy Suspicion it was done Was dim as to the wealthy Beginning not to own -
357 God is a distant—stately Lover— Woos, as He states us—by His Son… Verily, a Vicarious Courtship— “Miles”, and “Priscilla”, were su…
204 I’ll tell you how the Sun rose— A Ribbon at a time— The Steeples swam in Amethyst— The news, like Squirrels, ran—
410 The first Day’s Night had come— And grateful that a thing So terrible—had been endured— I told my Soul to sing—