#AmericanWriters
45 There’s something quieter than sle… Within this inner room! It wears a sprig upon its breast— And will not tell its name.
760 Most she touched me by her mutenes… Most she won me by the way She presented her small figure— Plea itself—for Charity—
557 She hideth Her the last— And is the first, to rise— Her Night doth hardly recompense The Closing of Her eyes—
237 I think just how my shape will ris… When I shall be “forgiven”— Till Hair—and Eyes—and timid Hea… Are out of sight—in Heaven—
562 Conjecturing a Climate Of unsuspended Suns— Adds poignancy to Winter— The Shivering Fancy turns
289 I know some lonely Houses off the… A Robber’d like the look of— Wooden barred, And Windows hanging low,
713 Fame of Myself, to justify, All other Plaudit be Superfluous—An Incense Beyond Necessity—
Come slowly, Eden Lips unused to thee. Bashful, sip thy jasmines, As the fainting bee,
I hide myself within my flower, That wearing on your breast, You, unsuspecting, wear me too - And angels know the rest. I hide myself within my flower,
LX The grass so little has to do,— A sphere of simple green, With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain,
Me! Come! My dazzled face In such a shining place! Me! Hear! My foreign ear The sounds of welcome near! The saints shall meet
344 ’Twas the old—road—through pain— That unfrequented—One— With many a turn—and thorn— That stops—at Heaven—
542 I had no Cause to be awake— My Best—was gone to sleep— And Morn a new politeness took— And failed to wake them up—
There cam a Wind like a Bugle - It quivered through the Grass And a Green Chill upon the Heat So ominous did pass We barred the Windows and the Doo…
312 Her—“last Poems”— Poets—ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled other,