#AmericanWriters
97 The rainbow never tells me That gust and storm are by, Yet is she more convincing Than Philosophy.
464 The power to be true to You, Until upon my face The Judgment push his Picture— Presumptuous of Your Place—
708 I sometimes drop it, for a Quick— The Thought to be alive— Anonymous Delight to know— And Madder—to conceive—
957 As One does Sickness over In convalescent Mind, His scrutiny of Chances By blessed Health obscured—
39 It did not surprise me— So I said—or thought— She will stir her pinions And the nest forgot,
319 Of Bronze — and Blaze — The North — tonight — So adequate — it forms — So preconcerted with itself —
Epigram THIS is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,— The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty.
342 It will be Summer—eventually. Ladies—with parasols— Sauntering Gentlemen—with Canes— And little Girls—with Dolls—
XXIX THE nearest dream recedes, unreal… The heaven we chase Like the June bee Before the school—boy
I dwell in Possibility – A fairer House than Prose – More numerous of Windows – Superior – for Doors – Of Chambers as the Cedars –
755 No Bobolink—reverse His Singing When the only Tree Ever He minded occupying By the Farmer be—
1763 Fame is a bee. It has a song— It has a sting— Ah, too, it has a wing.
774 It is a lonesome Glee— Yet sanctifies the Mind— With fair association— Afar upon the Wind
347 When Night is almost done— And Sunrise grows so near That we can touch the Spaces— It’s time to smooth the Hair—
The cricket sang, And set the sun, And workmen finished, one by one, Their seam the day upon. The low grass loaded with the dew,