#AmericanWriters
83 Heart, not so heavy as mine Wending late home— As it passed my window Whistled itself a tune—
810 Her Grace is all she has— And that, so least displays— One Art to recognize, must be, Another Art, to praise.
They shut me up in Prose— As when a little Girl They put me in the Closet— Because they liked me “still”— Still! Could themself have peeped…
298 Alone, I cannot be— For Hosts—do visit me— Recordless Company— Who baffle Key—
224 I've nothing else—to bring, You k… So I keep bringing These— Just as the Night keeps fetching… To our familiar eyes—
Lightly stepped a yellow star To its lofty place - Loosed the Moon her silver hat From her lustral Face - All of Evening softly lit
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,
704 672 No matter—now—Sweet— But when I’m Earl— Won’t you wish you’d spoken
I hide myself within my flower, That wearing on your breast, You, unsuspecting, wear me too - And angels know the rest. I hide myself within my flower,
301 I reason, Earth is short— And Anguish—absolute— And many hurt, But, what of that?
498 I envy Seas, whereon He rides— I envy Spokes of Wheels Of Chariots, that Him convey— I envy Crooked Hills
349 I had the Glory—that will do— An Honor, Thought can turn her to When lesser Fames invite— With one long “Nay”—
142 Whose are the little beds, I aske… Which in the valleys lie? Some shook their heads, and others… And no one made reply.
89 Some things that fly there be— Birds—Hours—the Bumblebee— Of these no Elegy. Some things that stay there be—
I years had been from home, And now, before the door, I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before Stare vacant into mine