#AmericanWriters
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—
A House upon the Height— That Wagon never reached— No Dead, were ever carried down— No Peddler’s Cart—approached— Whose Chimney never smoked—
Love—is that later Thing than Dea… More previous—than Life— Confirms it at its entrance—And Usurps it—of itself— Tastes Death—the first—to hand th…
56 If I should cease to bring a Rose Upon a festal day, ‘Twill be because beyond the Rose I have been called away—
482 We Cover Thee—Sweet Face— Not that We tire of Thee— But that Thyself fatigue of Us— Remember—as Thou go—
820 All Circumstances are the Frame In which His Face is set— All Latitudes exist for His Sufficient Continent—
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,
176 I’m the little “Heart’s Ease”! I don’t care for pouting skies! If the Butterfly delay Can I, therefore, stay away?
They shut me up in Prose— As when a little Girl They put me in the Closet— Because they liked me “still”— Still! Could themself have peeped…
323 As if I asked a common Alms, And in my wondering hand A Stranger pressed a Kingdom, And I, bewildered, stand—
714 Rest at Night The Sun from shining, Nature—and some Men— Rest at Noon—some Men—
17 Baffled for just a day or two— Embarrassed—not afraid— Encounter in my garden An unexpected Maid.
GLEE! the great storm is over! Four have recovered the land; Forty gone down together Into the boiling sand. Ring, for the scant salvation!
595 Like Mighty Foot Lights’—burned… At Bases of the Trees’— The far Theatricals of Day Exhibiting’—to These’—
994 Partake as doth the Bee, Abstemiously. The Rose is an Estate— In Sicily.