#AmericanWriters
798 She staked her Feathers—Gained an… Debated—Rose again— This time—beyond the estimate Of Envy, or of Men—
35 Nobody knows this little Rose— It might a pilgrim be Did I not take it from the ways And lift it up to thee.
981 As Sleigh Bells seem in summer Or Bees, at Christmas show— So fairy—so fictitious The individuals do
103 I have a King, who does not speak… So—wondering—thro’ the hours meek I trudge the day away— Half glad when it is night, and sl…
302 Like Some Old fashioned Miracle When Summertime is done— Seems Summer’s Recollection And the Affairs of June
560 It knew no lapse, nor Diminuation… But large—serene— Burned on—until through Dissoluti… It failed from Men—
Of so divine a Loss We enter but the Gain, Indemnity for Loneliness That such a Bliss has been.
763 He told a homely tale And spotted it with tears— Upon his infant face was set The Cicatrice of years—
CXXVIII I heard a fly buzz when I died; The stillness round my form Was like the stillness in the air Between the heaves of storm.
313 I should have been too glad, I se… Too lifted—for the scant degree Of Life’s penurious Round— My little Circuit would have sham…
989 Gratitude—is not the mention Of a Tenderness, But its still appreciation Out of Plumb of Speech.
XLVII IS Heaven a physician? They say that He can heal; But medicine posthumous Is unavailable.
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—
909 I make His Crescent fill or lack— His Nature is at Full Or Quarter—as I signify— His Tides—do I control—
310 Give little Anguish— Lives will fret— Give Avalanches— And they’ll slant—