#AmericanWriters
607 Of nearness to her sundered Thing… The Soul has special times— When Dimness—looks the Oddity— Distinctness—easy—se ems—
The Butterfly in honored Dust Assuredly will lie But none will pass the Catacomb So chastened as the Fly -
346 Not probable—The barest Chance— A smile too few—a word too much And far from Heaven as the Rest— The Soul so close on Paradise—
My nosegays are for captives; Dim, long-expectant eyes, Fingers denied the plucking, Patient till paradise. To such, if they should whisper
12 The morns are meeker than they wer… The nuts are getting brown— The berry’s cheek is plumper— The Rose is out of town.
13 Sleep is supposed to be By souls of sanity The shutting of the eye. Sleep is the station grand
The Work of Her that went, The Toil of Fellows done - In Ovens green our Mother bakes, By Fires of the Sun.
753 My Soul—accused me—And I quailed… As Tongue of Diamond had reviled All else accused me—and I smiled— My Soul—that Morning—was My frie…
Drowning is not so pitiful As the attempt to rise. Three times, 't is said, a sinking… Comes up to face the skies, And then declines forever
A bird came down the walk: He did not know I saw; He bit an angle-worm in halves And ate the fellow, raw. And then he drank a dew
91 So bashful when I spied her! So pretty—so ashamed! So hidden in her leaflets Lest anybody find—
796 Who Giants know, with lesser Men Are incomplete, and shy— For Greatness, that is ill at eas… In minor Company—
260 Read—Sweet—how others—strove— Till we—are stouter— What they—renounced— Till we—are less afraid—
Not any sunny tone From any fervent zone Find entrance there - Better a grave of Balm Toward human nature’s home -
660 ’Tis good—the looking back on Gri… To re-endure a Day— We thought the Mighty Funeral— Of All Conceived Joy—