#AmericanWriters
306 The Soul’s Superior instants Occur to Her—alone— When friend—and Earth’s occasion Have infinite withdrawn—
270 One Life of so much Consequence! Yet I—for it—would pay— My Soul’s entire income— In ceaseless—salary—
319 Of Bronze — and Blaze — The North — tonight — So adequate — it forms — So preconcerted with itself —
138 Pigmy seraphs’—gone astray’— Velvet people from Vevay’— Balles from some lost summer day’— Bees exclusive Coterie’—
90 Within my reach! I could have touched! I might have chanced that way! Soft sauntered thro’ the village—
912 Peace is a fiction of our Faith— The Bells a Winter Night Bearing the Neighbor out of Sound That never did alight.
994 Partake as doth the Bee, Abstemiously. The Rose is an Estate— In Sicily.
824 [first version] The Wind begun to knead the Grass… As Women do a Dough— He flung a Hand full at the Plain…
If you were coming in the fall, I’d brush the summer by With half a smile and half a spum, As housewives do a fly. If I could see you in a year,
154 Except to Heaven, she is nought. Except for Angels—lone. Except to some wide-wandering Bee A flower superfluous blown.
A Route of Evanescence With a revolving Wheel— A Resonance of Emerald— A Rush of Cochineal— And every Blossom on the Bush
927 Absent Place—an April Day— Daffodils a-blow Homesick curiosity To the Souls that snow—
8 There is a word Which bears a sword Can pierce an armed man— It hurls its barbed syllables
This is the land the sunset washes… These are the banks of the Yellow… Where it rose, or whither it rushe… These are the western mystery! Night after night her purple traff…
713 Fame of Myself, to justify, All other Plaudit be Superfluous—An Incense Beyond Necessity—