#AmericanWriters
75 She died at play, Gambolled away Her lease of spotted hours, Then sank as gaily as a Turn
944 I learned—at least—what Home coul… How ignorant I had been Of pretty ways of Covenant— How awkward at the Hymn
Pink, small, and punctual, Aromatic, low, Covert in April, Candid in May, Dear to the moss,
LVIII PORTRAITS are to daily faces As an evening west To a fine, pedantic sunshine In a satin vest.
144 She bore it till the simple veins Traced azure on her hand— Til pleading, round her quiet eyes The purple Crayons stand.
XL THE thought beneath so slight a f… Is more distinctly seen,— As laces just reveal the surge, Or mists the Apennine.
Said Death to Passion ‘Give of thine an Acre unto me.’ Said Passion, through contracting… ‘A Thousand Times Thee Nay.’ Bore Death from Passion
LXXXII THERE’S a certain slant of ligh… On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes.
252 I can wade Grief— Whole Pools of it— I’m used to that— But the least push of Joy
551 There is a Shame of Nobleness— Confronting Sudden Pelf— A finer Shame of Ecstasy— Convicted of Itself—
476 I meant to have but modest needs— Such as Content—and Heaven— Within my income—these could lie And Life and I—keep even—
807 Expectation—is Contentment— Gain—Satiety— But Satiety—Conviction Of Necessity
481 The Himmaleh was known to stoop Unto the Daisy low— Transported with Compassion That such a Doll should grow
993 We miss Her, not because We see— The Absence of an Eye— Except its Mind accompany Abridge Society
Out of sight? What of that? See the Bird —reach it! Curve by Curve —Sweep by Sweep — Round the Steep Air — Danger! What is that to Her?