#AmericanWriters
This quiet dust was gentlemen and… And lads and girls; Was laughter and ability and sighi… And frocks and curls; This passive place a summer’s nimb…
463 I live with Him — I see His face… I go no more away For Visitor — or Sundown — Death's single privacy
770 I lived on Dread— To Those who know The Stimulus there is In Danger—Other impetus
493 The World—stands—solemner—to me— Since I was wed—to Him— A modesty befits the soul That bears another’s—name—
111 The Bee is not afraid of me. I know the Butterfly. The pretty people in the Woods Receive me cordially—
668 “Nature” is what we see— The Hill—the Afternoon— Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee— Nay—Nature is Heaven—
927 Absent Place—an April Day— Daffodils a-blow Homesick curiosity To the Souls that snow—
748 Autumn—overlooked my Knitting— Dyes—said He—have I— Could disparage a Flamingo— Show Me them—said I—
267 Did we disobey Him? Just one time! Charged us to forget Him— But we couldn’t learn!
180 As if some little Arctic flower Upon the polar hem— Went wandering down the Latitudes Until it puzzled came
Death sets a thing significant The eye had hurried by, Except a perished creature Entreat us tenderly To ponder little workmanships
350 They leave us with the Infinite. But He—is not a man— His fingers are the size of fists— His fists, the size of men—
Nature rarer uses yellow Than another hue; Saves she all of that for sunsets,… Prodigal of blue, Spending scarlet like a woman,
991 She sped as Petals of a Rose Offended by the Wind— A frail Aristocrat of Time Indemnity to find—
789 On a Columnar Self— How ample to rely In Tumult—or Extremity— How good the Certainty
