#AmericanWriters
His voice decrepit was with Joy - Her words did totter so How old the News of Love must be To make Lips elderly That purled a moment since with G…
480 “Why do I love” You, Sir? Because— The Wind does not require the Gra… To answer—Wherefore when He pass
104 Where I have lost, I softer tread… I sow sweet flower from garden bed… I pause above that vanished head And mourn.
42 A Day! Help! Help! Another Day! Your prayers, oh Passer by! From such a common ball as this Might date a Victory!
His Heart was darker than the sta… For that there is a morn But in this black Receptacle Can be no Bode of Dawn
927 Absent Place—an April Day— Daffodils a-blow Homesick curiosity To the Souls that snow—
763 He told a homely tale And spotted it with tears— Upon his infant face was set The Cicatrice of years—
149 She went as quiet as the Dew From an Accustomed flower. Not like the Dew, did she return At the Accustomed hour!
122 A something in a summer’s Day As slow her flambeaux burn away Which solemnizes me. A something in a summer’s noon—
204 I’ll tell you how the Sun rose— A Ribbon at a time— The Steeples swam in Amethyst— The news, like Squirrels, ran—
621 I asked no other thing— No other—was denied— I offered Being—for it— The Mighty Merchant sneered—
46 I keep my pledge. I was not called— Death did not notice me. I bring my Rose.
233 The Lamp burns sure—within— Tho’ Serfs—supply the Oil— It matters not the busy Wick— At her phosphoric toil!
727 Precious to Me—She still shall be… Though She forget the name I bear… The fashion of the Gown I wear— The very Color of My Hair—
A House upon the Height— That Wagon never reached— No Dead, were ever carried down— No Peddler’s Cart—approached— Whose Chimney never smoked—