#AmericanWriters
Pink, small, and punctual, Aromatic, low, Covert in April, Candid in May, Dear to the moss,
841 A Moth the hue of this Haunts Candles in Brazil. Nature’s Experience would make Our Reddest Second pale.
To die—takes just a little while— They say it doesn't hurt— It's only fainter—by degrees— And then—it's out of sight— A darker Ribbon—for a Day—
Some keep the Sabbath going to Ch… I keep it, staying at Home— With a Bobolink for a Chorister— And an Orchard, for a Dome— Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice…
I noticed People disappeared When but a little child - Supposed they visited remote Or settled Regions wild - But did because they died
857 Uncertain lease—develops lustre On Time Uncertain Grasp, appreciation Of Sum—
113 Our share of night to bear— Our share of morning— Our blank in bliss to fill Our blank in scorning—
86 South Winds jostle them— Bumblebees come— Hover—hesitate— Dri nk, and are gone—
981 As Sleigh Bells seem in summer Or Bees, at Christmas show— So fairy—so fictitious The individuals do
213 Did the Harebell loose her girdle To the lover Bee Would the Bee the Harebell hallow Much as formerly?
565 One Anguish—in a Crowd— A Minor thing—it sounds— And yet, unto the single Doe Attempted of the Hounds
122 A something in a summer’s Day As slow her flambeaux burn away Which solemnizes me. A something in a summer’s noon—
535 She’s happy, with a new Content— That feels to her—like Sacrament— She’s busy—with an altered Care— As just apprenticed to the Air—
29 If those I loved were lost The Crier’s voice would tell me— If those I loved were found The bells of Ghent would ring—
LXXXII THERE’S a certain slant of ligh… On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes.