#AmericanWriters
726 We thirst at first—’tis Nature’s… And later—when we die— A little Water supplicate— Of fingers going by—
239 “Heaven”—is what I cannot reach! The Apple on the Tree— Provided it do hopeless—hang— That—"He aven" is—to Me!
To die—takes just a little while— They say it doesn’t hurt— It’s only fainter—by degrees— And then—it’s out of sight— A darker Ribbon—for a Day—
885 Our little Kinsmen’—after Rain In plenty may be seen, A Pink and Pulpy multitude The tepid Ground upon.
348 I would not paint — a picture — I'd rather be the One It's bright impossibility To dwell — delicious — on —
A Word dropped careless on a Page May stimulate an eye When folded in perpetual seam The Wrinkled Maker lie Infection in the sentence breeds
942 Snow beneath whose chilly softness Some that never lay Make their first Repose this Wint… I admonish Thee
493 The World—stands—solemner—to me— Since I was wed—to Him— A modesty befits the soul That bears another’s—name—
146 On such a night, or such a night, Would anybody care If such a little figure Slipped quiet from its chair—
423 The Months have ends—the Years—a… No Power can untie To stretch a little further A Skein of Misery—
Are Friends Delight or Pain? Could Bounty but remain Riches were good - But if they only stay Ampler to fly away
595 Like Mighty Foot Lights’—burned… At Bases of the Trees’— The far Theatricals of Day Exhibiting’—to These’—
A Cloud withdrew from the Sky Superior Glory be But that Cloud and its Auxiliarie… Are forever lost to me Had I but further scanned
637 The Child’s faith is new— Whole—like His Principle— Wide—like the Sunrise On fresh Eyes—