#Americans #Women #XIXCentury
LXXXIII This World is not Conclusion. A Species stands beyond — Invisible, as Music — But positive, as Sound —
My life had stood—a Loaded Gun— In Corners—till a Day The Owner passed—identified— And carried Me away— And now We roam in Sovereign Woo…
761 From Blank to Blank— A Threadless Way I pushed Mechanic feet— To stop—or perish—or advance—
969 He who in Himself believes— Fraud cannot presume— Faith is Constancy’s Result— And assumes—from Home—
XLVII IS Heaven a physician? They say that He can heal; But medicine posthumous Is unavailable.
354 From Cocoon forth a Butterfly As Lady from her Door Emerged—a Summer Afternoon— Repairing Everywhere—
6 Frequently the wood are pink— Frequently are brown. Frequently the hills undress Behind my native town.
LXXXIX A WORD is dead When it is said, Some say. I say it just
192 Poor little Heart! Did they forget thee? Then dinna care! Then dinna care! Proud little Heart!
893 Drab Habitation of Whom? Tabernacle or Tomb— Or Dome of Worm— Or Porch of Gnome—
957 As One does Sickness over In convalescent Mind, His scrutiny of Chances By blessed Health obscured—
There is no frigate like a book To take us lands away, Nor any coursers like a page Of prancing poetry. This traverse may the poorest take
Those fair—fictitious People— The Women—plucked away From our familiar Lifetime— The Men of Ivory— Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas—
‘T was just this time last year I… I know I heard the corn, When I was carried by the farms,— It had the tassels on. I thought how yellow it would look
912 Peace is a fiction of our Faith— The Bells a Winter Night Bearing the Neighbor out of Sound That never did alight.
