#AmericanWriters
A feather from the Whippoorwill That everlasting—sings! Whose galleries—are Sunrise— Whose Opera—the Springs— Whose Emerald Nest the Ages spin
342 It will be Summer—eventually. Ladies—with parasols— Sauntering Gentlemen—with Canes— And little Girls—with Dolls—
356 The Day that I was crowned Was like the other Days— Until the Coronation came— And then—'twas Otherwise—
553 One Crucifixion is recorded’—only… How many be Is not affirmed of Mathematics’— Or History’—
916 His Feet are shod with Gauze— His Helmet, is of Gold, His Breast, a Single Onyx With Chrysophrase, inlaid.
512 The Soul has Bandaged moments— When too appalled to stir— She feels some ghastly Fright com… And stop to look at her—
The Savior must have been A docile Gentleman— To come so far so cold a Day For little Fellowmen— The Road to Bethlehem
Because I could not stop for Deat… He kindly stopped for me– The Carriage held but just Oursel… And Immortality. We slowly drove– He knew no haste
220 Could I—then—shut the door— Lest my beseeching face—at last— Rejected—be—of Her?
681 Soil of Flint, if steady tilled— Will refund by Hand— Seed of Palm, by Libyan Sun Fructified in Sand—
453 Love—thou art high— I cannot climb thee— But, were it Two— Who know but we—
695 As if the Sea should part And show a further Sea— And that—a further—and the Three But a presumption be—
635 I think the longest Hour of all Is when the Cars have come— And we are waiting for the Coach— It seems as though the Time
332 There are two Ripenings—one—of si… Whose forces Spheric wind Until the Velvet product Drop spicy to the ground—
LX The grass so little has to do,— A sphere of simple green, With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain,