#AmericanWriters
A bird came down the walk: He did not know I saw; He bit an angle-worm in halves And ate the fellow, raw. And then he drank a dew
748 Autumn—overlooked my Knitting— Dyes—said He—have I— Could disparage a Flamingo— Show Me them—said I—
984 ’Tis Anguish grander than Delight ’Tis Resurrection Pain— The meeting Bands of smitten Face We questioned to, again.
Delight becomes pictorial When viewed through pain,— More fair, because impossible That any gain. The mountaln at a given distance
423 The Months have ends—the Years—a… No Power can untie To stretch a little further A Skein of Misery—
893 Drab Habitation of Whom? Tabernacle or Tomb— Or Dome of Worm— Or Porch of Gnome—
864 The Robin for the Crumb Returns no syllable But long records the Lady’s name In Silver Chronicle.
8 There is a word Which bears a sword Can pierce an armed man— It hurls its barbed syllables
296 One Year ago’—jots what? God’—spell the word! I’—can’t’— Was’t Grace? Not that’— Was’t Glory? That’—will do’—
15 The Guest is gold and crimson— An Opal guest and gray— Of Ermine is his doublet— His Capuchin gay—
582 Inconceivably solemn! Things go gay Pierce—by the very Press Of Imagery—
Of so divine a Loss We enter but the Gain, Indemnity for Loneliness That such a Bliss has been.
106 The Daisy follows soft the Sun— And when his golden walk is done— Sits shyly at his feet— He—waking—finds the flower there—
29 If those I loved were lost The Crier’s voice would tell me— If those I loved were found The bells of Ghent would ring—