#AmericanWriters
638 To my small Hearth His fire came— And all my House aglow Did fan and rock, with sudden ligh… ’Twas Sunrise—'twas the Sky—
His voice decrepit was with Joy - Her words did totter so How old the News of Love must be To make Lips elderly That purled a moment since with G…
182 If I shouldn’t be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb.
859 A doubt if it be Us Assists the staggering Mind In an extremer Anguish Until it footing find.
411 The Color of the Grave is Green— The Outer Grave—I mean— You would not know it from the Fi… Except it own a Stone—
Our lives are Swiss— So still—so Cool— Till some odd afternoon The Alps neglect their Curtains And we look farther on!
17 Baffled for just a day or two— Embarrassed—not afraid— Encounter in my garden An unexpected Maid.
XXVI THE brain within its groove Runs evenly and true; But let a splinter swerve, ’T were easier for you
5 I have a Bird in spring Which for myself doth sing— The spring decoys. And as the summer nears—
915 Faith’—is the Pierless Bridge Supporting what We see Unto the Scene that We do not’— Too slender for the eye
713 Fame of Myself, to justify, All other Plaudit be Superfluous—An Incense Beyond Necessity—
909 I make His Crescent fill or lack— His Nature is at Full Or Quarter—as I signify— His Tides—do I control—
620 It makes no difference abroad— The Seasons—fit—the same— The Mornings blossom into Noons— And split their Pods of Flame—
576 I prayed, at first, a little Girl… Because they told me to— But stopped, when qualified to gue… How prayer would feel—to me—
Glory is that bright tragic thing That for an instant Means Dominion - Warms some poor name That never felt the Sun,