#AmericanWriters
172 ’Tis so much joy! ’Tis so much jo… If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I, Have ventured all upon a throw!
Pink, small, and punctual, Aromatic, low, Covert in April, Candid in May, Dear to the moss,
113 Our share of night to bear— Our share of morning— Our blank in bliss to fill Our blank in scorning—
722 Sweet Mountains—Ye tell me no lie… Never deny Me—Never fly— Those same unvarying Eyes Turn on Me—when I fail—or feign,
Abraham to kill him Was distinctly told’— Isaac was an Urchin’— Abraham was old’— Not a hesitation’—
491 While it is alive Until Death touches it While it and I lap one Air Dwell in one Blood
218 Is it true, dear Sue? Are there two? I shouldn’t like to come For fear of joggling Him!
146 On such a night, or such a night, Would anybody care If such a little figure Slipped quiet from its chair—
565 One Anguish—in a Crowd— A Minor thing—it sounds— And yet, unto the single Doe Attempted of the Hounds
The Butterfly upon the Sky, That doesn’t know its Name And hasn’t any tax to pay And hasn’t any Home Is just as high as you and I,
552 An ignorance a Sunset Confer upon the Eye— Of Territory—Color— Circumference&mda sh;Decay—
LXXXV A LIGHT exists in spring Not present on the year At any other period. When March is scarcely here
137 Flowers—Well—if anybody Can the ecstasy define— Half a transport—half a trouble— With which flowers humble men:
517 He parts Himself’—like Leaves’— And then’—He closes up’— Then stands upon the Bonnet Of Any Buttercup’—
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—