#AmericanWriters
467 We do not play on Graves— Because there isn’t Room— Besides—it isn’t even—it slants And People come—
291 How the old Mountains drip with S… How the Hemlocks burn— How the Dun Brake is draped in C… By the Wizard Sun—
Part One: Life LIII GOD gave a loaf to every bird, But just a crumb to me; I dare not eat it, though I starv…
91 So bashful when I spied her! So pretty—so ashamed! So hidden in her leaflets Lest anybody find—
34 Garland for Queens, may be— Laurels—for rare degree Of soul or sword. Ah—but remembering me—
497 He strained my faith— Did he find it supple? Shook my strong trust— Did it then—yield?
903 I hide myself within my flower, That fading from your Vase, You, unsuspecting, feel for me— Almost a loneliness.
I like to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step Around a pile of mountains,
329 So glad we are’—a Stranger’d deem ’Twas sorry, that we were’— For where the Holiday should be There publishes a Tear’—
424 Removed from Accident of Loss By Accident of Gain Befalling not my simple Days— Myself had just to earn—
514 Her smile was shaped like other sm… The Dimples ran along— And still it hurt you, as some Bi… Did hoist herself, to sing,
XLVI A THOUGHT went up my mind to—d… That I have had before, But did not finish,—some way back, I could not fix the year,
250 I shall keep singing! Birds will pass me On their way to Yellower Climes— Each—with a Robin’s expectation—
821 Away from Home are some and I— An Emigrant to be In a Metropolis of Homes Is easy, possibly—
241 I like a look of Agony, Because I know it’s true— Men do not sham Convulsion, Nor simulate, a Throe—