#AmericanWriters
There’s a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons— That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes— Heavenly Hurt, it gives us—
66 So from the mould Scarlet and Gold Many a Bulb will rise— Hidden away, cunningly, From saga…
719 A South Wind—has a pathos Of individual Voice— As One detect on Landings An Emigrant’s address.
The Soul unto itself Is an imperial friend— Or the most agonizing Spy— An Enemy—could send— Secure against its own—
447 Could—I do more—for Thee— Wert Thou a Bumble Bee— Since for the Queen, have I— Nought but Bouquet?
526 To hear an Oriole sing May be a common thing— Or only a divine. It is not of the Bird
403 The Winters are so short— I’m hardly justified In sending all the Birds away— And moving into Pod—
Whose Pink career may have a clos… Portentous as our own, who knows? To imitate these Neighbors fleet In awe and innocence, were meet.
451 The Outer—from the Inner Derives its Magnitude— ’Tis Duke, or Dwarf, according As is the Central Mood—
XLIV THE show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to me My neighbor be.
344 ’Twas the old—road—through pain— That unfrequented—One— With many a turn—and thorn— That stops—at Heaven—
782 There is an arid Pleasure— As different from Joy— As Frost is different from Dew— Like element—are they—
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
904 Had I not This, or This, I said, Appealing to Myself, In moment of prosperity— Inadequate—were Life—
’Twas Crisis—All the length had p… That dull—benumbing time There is in Fever or Event— And now the Chance had come— The instant holding in its claw
