#AmericanWriters
811 The Veins of other Flowers The Scarlet Flowers are Till Nature leisure has for Terms As “Branch,” and “Jugular.”
97 The rainbow never tells me That gust and storm are by, Yet is she more convincing Than Philosophy.
I meant to find her when I came; Death had the same design; But the success was his, it seems, And the discomfit mine. I meant to tell her how I longed
When Memory is full Put on the perfect Lid - This Morning’s finest syllable Presumptuous Evening said -
483 A Solemn thing within the Soul To feel itself get ripe— And golden hang—while farther up— The Maker’s Ladders stop—
LXXXVIII HEAVEN is what I cannot reach! The apple on the tree, Provided it do hopeless hang, That “heaven” is, to me.
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—
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
XIV SOME things that fly there be,— Birds, hours, the bumble-bee: Of these no elegy. Some things that stay there be,—
958 We met as Sparks—Diverging Flint… Sent various—scattered ways— We parted as the Central Flint Were cloven with an Adze—
830 To this World she returned. But with a tinge of that— A Compound manner, As a Sod
782 There is an arid Pleasure— As different from Joy— As Frost is different from Dew— Like element—are they—
651 So much Summer Me for showing Illegitimate— Would a Smile’s minute bestowing
907 Till Death’—is narrow Loving’— The scantest Heart extant Will hold you till your privilege Of Finiteness’—be spent’—
122 A something in a summer’s Day As slow her flambeaux burn away Which solemnizes me. A something in a summer’s noon—