#AmericanWriters
343 My Reward for Being, was This. My premium—My Bliss— An Admiralty, less— A Sceptre—penniless—
LX The grass so little has to do,— A sphere of simple green, With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain,
531 We dream—it is good we are dreamin… It would hurt us—were we awake— But since it is playing—kill us, And we are playing—shriek—
830 To this World she returned. But with a tinge of that— A Compound manner, As a Sod
903 I hide myself within my flower, That fading from your Vase, You, unsuspecting, feel for me— Almost a loneliness.
130 These are the days when Birds com… A very few—a Bird or two— To take a backward look. These are the days when skies resu…
The Soul selects her own Society— Then—shuts the Door— To her divine Majority— Present no more— Unmoved—she notes the Chariots—pa…
993 We miss Her, not because We see— The Absence of an Eye— Except its Mind accompany Abridge Society
883 The Poets light but Lamps— Themselves—go out— The Wicks they stimulate— If vital Light
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…
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,
253 You see I cannot see—your lifetim… I must guess— How many times it ache for me—toda… How many times for my far sake
The Black Berry—wears a Thorn in… But no Man heard Him cry— He offers His Berry, just the sam… To Partridge—and to Boy— He sometimes holds upon the Fence…
Whether they have forgotten Or are forgetting now Or never remembered - Safer not to know - Miseries of conjecture
575 “Heaven” has different Signs—to m… Sometimes, I think that Noon Is but a symbol of the Place— And when again, at Dawn,