#AmericanWriters
365 Dare you see a Soul at the White… Then crouch within the door— Red—is the Fire’s common tint— But when the vivid Ore
50 I haven’t told my garden yet— Lest that should conquer me. I haven’t quite the strength now To break it to the Bee—
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—
After a hundred years Nobody knows the place,— Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace. Weeds triumphant ranged,
Before you thought of spring, Except as a surmise, You see, God bless his suddenness… A fellow in the skies Of independent hues,
962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—
168 If the foolish, call them “flowers… Need the wiser, tell? If the Savants “Classify” them It is just as well!
974 The Soul’s distinct connection With immortality Is best disclosed by Danger Or quick Calamity—
835 Nature and God—I neither knew Yet Both so well knew me They startled, like Executors Of My identity.
There is no Silence in the Earth… As that endured Which uttered, would discourage N… And haunt the World.
91 So bashful when I spied her! So pretty—so ashamed! So hidden in her leaflets Lest anybody find—
987 The Leaves like Women interchange Exclusive Confidence— Somewhat of nods and somewhat Portentous inference.
XVII WHEN night is almost done, And sunrise grows so near That we can touch the spaces, It ’s time to smooth the hair
I found the phrase to every though… I ever had, but one; And that defies me,—as a hand Did try to chalk the sun To races nurtured in the dark;—
52 Whether my bark went down at sea— Whether she met with gales— Whether to isles enchanted She bent her docile sails—