#AmericanWriters
LXVII If I should die, And you should live, And time should gurgle on, And morn should beam,
100 A science—so the Savants say, “Comparative Anatomy”— By which a single bone— Is made a secret to unfold
The Butterfly in honored Dust Assuredly will lie But none will pass the Catacomb So chastened as the Fly -
“Unto Me?” I do not know you’— Where may be your House? “I am Jesus’—Late of Judea’— Now’—of Paradise"'— Wagons’—have you’—to convey me?
348 I would not paint — a picture — I'd rather be the One It's bright impossibility To dwell — delicious — on —
353 A happy lip—breaks sudden— It doesn’t state you how It contemplated—smiling— Just consummated—now—
956 What shall I do when the Summer t… What, when the Rose is ripe— What when the Eggs fly off in Mus… From the Maple Keep?
After great pain, a formal feeling… The Nerves sit ceremonious, like… The stiff Heart questions was it… And Yesterday, or Centuries befor… The Feet, mechanical, go round—
921 If it had no pencil Would it try mine— Worn—now—and dull—sweet, Writing much to thee.
356 The Day that I was crowned Was like the other Days— Until the Coronation came— And then—'twas Otherwise—
645 Bereavement in their death to feel Whom We have never seen— A Vital Kinsmanship import Our Soul and theirs—between—
Death leaves Us homesick, who beh… Except that it is gone Are ignorant of its Concern As if it were not born. Through all their former Places,…
“I want”—it pleaded—All its life— I want—was chief it said When Skill entreated it—the last— And when so newly dead— I could not deem it late—to hear
955 The Hollows round His eager Eyes Were Pages where to read Pathetic Histories—although Himself had not complained.
208 The Rose did caper on her cheek— Her Bodice rose and fell— Her pretty speech—like drunken men… Did stagger pitiful—