#AmericanWriters
783 The Birds begun at Four o’clock— Their period for Dawn— A Music numerous as space— But neighboring as Noon—
902 The first Day that I was a Life I recollect it—How still— That last Day that I was a Life I recollect it—as well—
When Memory is full Put on the perfect Lid - This Morning’s finest syllable Presumptuous Evening said -
760 Most she touched me by her mutenes… Most she won me by the way She presented her small figure— Plea itself—for Charity—
The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,— The sweeping up the heart,
XLIX WE outgrow love like other things And put it in the drawer, Till it an antique fashion shows Like costumes grandsires wore.
901 Sweet, to have had them lost For news that they be saved— The nearer they departed Us The nearer they, restored,
395 Reverse cannot befall That fine Prosperity Whose Sources are interior— As soon—Adversity
Whether they have forgotten Or are forgetting now Or never remembered - Safer not to know - Miseries of conjecture
28 So has a Daisy vanished From the fields today— So tiptoed many a slipper To Paradise away—
It struck me every day The lightning was as new As if the cloud that instant slit And let the fire through. It burned me in the night,
If you were coming in the fall, I’d brush the summer by With half a smile and half a spum, As housewives do a fly. If I could see you in a year,
941 The Lady feeds Her little Bird At rarer intervals— The little Bird would not dissent But meekly recognize
Me! Come! My dazzled face In such a shining place! Me! Hear! My foreign ear The sounds of welcome near! The saints shall meet
752 So the Eyes accost’—and sunder In an Audience’— Stamped’—occasionally’—forever’— So may Countenance