#AmericanWriters
563 I could not prove the Years had f… Yet confident they run Am I, from symptoms that are past And Series that are done—
977 Besides this May We know There is Another— How fair
582 Inconceivably solemn! Things go gay Pierce—by the very Press Of Imagery—
911 Too little way the House must lie From every Human Heart That holds in undisputed Lease A white inhabitant—
175 I have never seen “Volcanoes”— But, when Travellers tell How those old—phlegmatic mountains Usually so still—
620 It makes no difference abroad— The Seasons—fit—the same— The Mornings blossom into Noons— And split their Pods of Flame—
981 As Sleigh Bells seem in summer Or Bees, at Christmas show— So fairy—so fictitious The individuals do
MY cocoon tightens, colors tease, I 'm feeling for the air; A dim capacity for wings Degrades the dress I wear. A power of butterfly must be
124 In lands I never saw—they say Immortal Alps look down— Whose Bonnets touch the firmament… Whose Sandals touch the town—
The day came slow, till five o’clo… Then sprang before the hills, Like hindered rubies, or the light… A sudden musket spills. The purple could not keep the east…
818 I could not drink it, Sweet, Till You had tasted first, Though cooler than the Water was The Thoughtfullness of Thirst.
No rack can torture me, My soul’s at liberty Behind this mortal bone There knits a bolder one You cannot prick with saw,
51 I often passed the village When going home from school— And wondered what they did there— And why it was so still—
1763 Fame is a bee. It has a song— It has a sting— Ah, too, it has a wing.
192 Poor little Heart! Did they forget thee? Then dinna care! Then dinna care! Proud little Heart!