#Americans #Women #XIXCentury
883 The Poets light but Lamps— Themselves—go out— The Wicks they stimulate— If vital Light
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
After a hundred years Nobody knows the place,— Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace. Weeds triumphant ranged,
807 Expectation—is Contentment— Gain—Satiety— But Satiety—Conviction Of Necessity
702 A first Mute Coming— In the Stranger’s House— A first fair Going— When the Bells rejoice—
Heart, we will forget him, You and I, tonight! You must forget the warmth he gave… I will forget the light. When you have done pray tell me,
655 Without this—there is nought— All other Riches be As is the Twitter of a Bird— Heard opposite the Sea—
912 Peace is a fiction of our Faith— The Bells a Winter Night Bearing the Neighbor out of Sound That never did alight.
608 Afraid! Of whom am I afraid? Not Death—for who is He? The Porter of my Father’s Lodge As much abasheth me!
467 We do not play on Graves— Because there isn’t Room— Besides—it isn’t even—it slants And People come—
I like to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step Around a pile of mountains,
379 Rehearsal to Ourselves Of a Withdrawn Delight— Affords a Bliss like Murder— Omnipotent—Acute—
437 Prayer is the little implement Through which Men reach Where Presence—is denied them. They fling their Speech
101 Will there really be a “Morning”? Is there such a thing as “Day”? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they?
340 Is Bliss then, such Abyss, I must not put my foot amiss For fear I spoil my shoe? I’d rather suit my foot
