#AmericanWriters
447 Could—I do more—for Thee— Wert Thou a Bumble Bee— Since for the Queen, have I— Nought but Bouquet?
956 What shall I do when the Summer t… What, when the Rose is ripe— What when the Eggs fly off in Mus… From the Maple Keep?
The Grass so little has to do ' A Sphere of simple Green ' With only Butterflies to brood And Bees to entertain ' And stir all day to pretty Tunes
9 Through lane it lay—through brambl… Through clearing and through wood— Banditti often passed us Upon the lonely road.
Love—is that later Thing than Dea… More previous—than Life— Confirms it at its entrance—And Usurps it—of itself— Tastes Death—the first—to hand th…
XXIV A NARROW fellow in the grass Occasionally rides; You may have met him,—did you not? His notice sudden is.
144 She bore it till the simple veins Traced azure on her hand— Til pleading, round her quiet eyes The purple Crayons stand.
The Beggar at the Door for Fame Were easily supplied But Bread is that Diviner thing Disclosed to be denied
Death sets a thing significant The eye had hurried by, Except a perished creature Entreat us tenderly To ponder little workmanships
Oh Shadow on the Grass, Art thou a Step or not? Go make thee fair my Candidate My nominated Heart - Oh Shadow on the Grass
XCIX THERE is no frigate like a book To take us lands away, Nor any coursers like a page Of prancing poetry.
LXIII TALK with prudence to a beggar Of “Potosi” and the mines! Reverently to the hungry Of your viands and your wines!
777 The Loneliness One dare not sound… And would as soon surmise As in its Grave go plumbing To ascertain the size—
204 I’ll tell you how the Sun rose— A Ribbon at a time— The Steeples swam in Amethyst— The news, like Squirrels, ran—
312 Her—“last Poems”— Poets—ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled other,