#AmericanWriters
899 Herein a Blossom lies— A Sepulchre, between— Cross it, and overcome the Bee— Remain—'tis but a Rind.
359 I gained it so— By Climbing slow— By Catching at the Twigs that gro… Between the Bliss—and me—
314 Nature—sometimes sears a Sapling— Sometimes—scalps a Tree— Her Green People recollect it When they do not die—
311 It sifts from Leaden Sieves— It powders all the Wood. It fills with Alabaster Wool The Wrinkles of the Road—
My cocoon tightens, colors tease, I’m feeling for the air; A dim capacity for wings Degrades the dress I wear. A power of butterfly must be
VIII A wounded deer leaps highest, I ’ve heard the hunter tell; ’T is but the ecstasy of death, And then the brake is still.
244 It is easy to work when the soul i… But when the soul is in pain— The hearing him put his playthings… Makes work difficult—then—
This is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,- The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty Her message is committed
437 Prayer is the little implement Through which Men reach Where Presence—is denied them. They fling their Speech
A bird came down the walk: He did not know I saw; He bit an angle-worm in halves And ate the fellow, raw. And then he drank a dew
Delight becomes pictorial When viewed through pain,— More fair, because impossible That any gain. The mountaln at a given distance
849 The good Will of a Flower The Man who would possess Must first present Certificate
I had no time to hate, because The grave would hinder me, And life was not so ample I Could finish enmity. Nor had I time to love, but since
522 Had I presumed to hope— The loss had been to Me A Value—for the Greatness’ Sake— As Giants—gone away—
86 South Winds jostle them— Bumblebees come— Hover—hesitate— Dri nk, and are gone—