#AmericanWriters
XXVII I’m Nobody! Who are you? Are you—Nobody—too? Then there’s a pair of us! Don’t tell! they’d advertise—you k…
617 Don’t put up my Thread and Needle… I’ll begin to Sew When the Birds begin to whistle— Better Stitches—so—
874 They won’t frown always—some sweet… When I forget to tease— They’ll recollect how cold I look… And how I just said “Please.”
18 The Gentian weaves her fringes— The Maple’s loom is red— My departing blossoms Obviate parade.
699 The Judge is like the Owl— I’ve heard my Father tell— And Owls do build in Oaks— So here’s an Amber Sill—
XXXII HOPE is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the wor… And never stops at all,
801 I play at Riches’—to appease The Clamoring for Gold’— It kept me from a Thief, I think, For often, overbold
911 Too little way the House must lie From every Human Heart That holds in undisputed Lease A white inhabitant—
CXII I FELT a funeral in my brain, And mourners, to and fro, Kept treading, treading, till it s… That sense was breaking through.
There comes a warning like a spy A shorter breath of Day A stealing that is not a stealth And Summers are away
786 Severer Service of myself I—hastened to demand To fill the awful Vacuum Your life had left behind—
488 Myself was formed’—a Carpenter’— An unpretending time My Plane’—and I, together wrought Before a Builder came’—
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry....
“Morning”—means “Milking”—to the… Dawn—to the Teneriffe— Dice—to the Maid— Morning means just Risk—to the Lo… Just revelation—to the Beloved—
260 Read—Sweet—how others—strove— Till we—are stouter— What they—renounced— Till we—are less afraid—