#AmericanWriters
163 Tho’ my destiny be Fustian— Hers be damask fine— Tho’ she wear a silver apron— I, a less divine—
XXII I had no time to hate, because The grave would hinder me, And life was not so ample I Could finish enmity.
The pedigree of honey Does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him Is aristocracy.
751 My Worthiness is all my Doubt— His Merit—all my fear— Contrasting which, my quality Do lowlier—appear—
366 Although I put away his life— An Ornament too grand For Forehead low as mine, to wear… This might have been the Hand
578 The Body grows without— The more convenient way— That if the Spirit—like to hide Its Temple stands, alway,
91 So bashful when I spied her! So pretty—so ashamed! So hidden in her leaflets Lest anybody find—
273 He put the Belt around my life I heard the Buckle snap— And turned away, imperial, My Lifetime folding up—
698 Life—is what we make of it— Death—we do not know— Christ’s acquaintance with Him Justify Him—though—
XVII SHE rose to his requirement, drop… The playthings of her life To take the honorable work Of woman and of wife.
998 Best Things dwell out of Sight The Pearl—the Just—Our Thought. Most shun the Public Air Legitimate, and Rare—
270 One Life of so much Consequence! Yet I—for it—would pay— My Soul’s entire income— In ceaseless—salary—
71 A throe upon the features— A hurry in the breath— An ecstasy of parting Denominated “Death”—
Years I had been from home, And now, before the door I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before Stare vacant into mine
479 She dealt her pretty words like B… How glittering they shone— And every One unbared a Nerve Or wantoned with a Bone—