#AmericanWriters
There is another Loneliness That many die without - Not want of friend occasions it Or circumstances of Lot But nature, sometimes, sometimes t…
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…
We like March, his shoes are purp… He is new and high; Makes he mud for dog and peddler, Makes he forest dry; Knows the adder’s tongue his comin…
127 “Houses”—so the Wise Men tell me— “Mansions”! Mansions must be warm… Mansions cannot let the tears in, Mansions must exclude the storm!
687 I’ll send the feather from my Hat… Who knows—but at the sight of that My Sovereign will relent? As trinket—worn by faded Child—
929 How far is it to Heaven? As far as Death this way— Of River or of Ridge beyond Was no discovery.
330 The Juggler’s Hat her Country is… The Mountain Gorse—the Bee’s!
898 How happy I was if I could forget To remember how sad I am Would be an easy adversity But the recollecting of Bloom
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
335 ’Tis not that Dying hurts us so— ’Tis Living—hurts us more— But Dying—is a different way— A Kind behind the Door—
Luck is not chance It’s Toil Fortune’s expensive smile Is earned The Father of the Mine
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…
The Work of Her that went, The Toil of Fellows done - In Ovens green our Mother bakes, By Fires of the Sun.
731 “I want”—it pleaded—All its life— I want—was chief it said When Skill entreated it—the last— And when so newly dead—
She could not live upon the Past The Present did not know her And so she sought this sweet at la… And nature gently owned her The mother that has not a knell