#AmericanWriters
Come slowly, Eden Lips unused to thee. Bashful, sip thy jasmines, As the fainting bee,
638 To my small Hearth His fire came— And all my House aglow Did fan and rock, with sudden ligh… ’Twas Sunrise—'twas the Sky—
830 To this World she returned. But with a tinge of that— A Compound manner, As a Sod
275 Doubt Me! My Dim Companion! Why, God, would be content With but a fraction of the Life— Poured thee, without a stint—
LXXXIX A WORD is dead When it is said, Some say. I say it just
6 Frequently the wood are pink— Frequently are brown. Frequently the hills undress Behind my native town.
525 I think the Hemlock likes to stan… Upon a Marge of Snow— It suits his own Austerity— And satisfies an awe
876 It was a Grave, yet bore no Stone Enclosed ’twas not of Rail A Consciousness its Acre, and It held a Human Soul.
It stole along so stealthy Suspicion it was done Was dim as to the wealthy Beginning not to own -
93 Went up a year this evening! I recollect it well! Amid no bells nor bravoes The bystanders will tell!
810 Her Grace is all she has— And that, so least displays— One Art to recognize, must be, Another Art, to praise.
THE BAT is dun with wrinkled wi… Like fallow article, And not a song pervades his lips, Or none perceptible. His small umbrella, quaintly halve…
785 They have a little Odor—that to m… Is metre—nay—’tis melody— And spiciest at fading—indicate— A Habit—of a Laureate—
521 Endow the Living—with the Tears— You squander on the Dead, And They were Men and Women—now, Around Your Fireside—
LXVII If I should die, And you should live, And time should gurgle on, And morn should beam,