#AmericanWriters
748 Autumn—overlooked my Knitting— Dyes—said He—have I— Could disparage a Flamingo— Show Me them—said I—
19 A sepal, petal, and a thorn Upon a common summer’s morn— A flask of Dew—A Bee or two— A Breeze—a caper in the trees—
929 How far is it to Heaven? As far as Death this way— Of River or of Ridge beyond Was no discovery.
949 Under the Light, yet under, Under the Grass and the Dirt, Under the Beetle’s Cellar Under the Clover’s Root,
932 My best Acquaintances are those With Whom I spoke no Word— The Stars that stated come to Tow… Esteemed Me never rude
923 How the Waters closed above Him We shall never know— How He stretched His Anguish to… That—is covered too—
456 So well that I can live without— I love thee—then How well is that… As well as Jesus? Prove it me
13 Sleep is supposed to be By souls of sanity The shutting of the eye. Sleep is the station grand
’Twas comfort in her Dying Room To hear the living Clock— A short relief to have the wind Walk boldly up and knock— Diversion from the Dying Theme
730 Defrauded I a Butterfly— The lawful Heir—for Thee—
Because I could not stop for Deat… He kindly stopped for me– The Carriage held but just Oursel… And Immortality. We slowly drove– He knew no haste
351 I felt my life with both my hands To see if it was there— I held my spirit to the Glass, To prove it possibler—
589 The Night was wide, and furnished… With but a single Star— That often as a Cloud it met— Blew out itself—for fear—
375 The Angle of a Landscape— That every time I wake— Between my Curtain and the Wall Upon an ample Crack—
So much of Heaven has gone from E… That there must be a Heaven If only to enclose the Saints To Affidavit given. The Missionary to the Mole
