#AmericanWriters
MINE enemy is growing old, I have at last revenge. The palate of the hate departs; If any would avenge, Let him be quick, the viand flits,
408 Unit, like Death, for Whom? True, like the Tomb, Who tells no secret Told to Him—
89 Some things that fly there be— Birds—Hours—the Bumblebee— Of these no Elegy. Some things that stay there be—
To die—takes just a little while— They say it doesn't hurt— It's only fainter—by degrees— And then—it's out of sight— A darker Ribbon—for a Day—
728 Let Us play Yesterday— I—the Girl at school— You—and Eternity—the Untold Tale—
69 Low at my problem bending, Another problem comes— Larger than mine—Serener— Involving statelier sums.
32 When Roses cease to bloom, Sir, And Violets are done— When Bumblebees in solemn flight Have passed beyond the Sun—
412 I read my sentence—steadily— Reviewed it with my eyes, To see that I made no mistake In its extremest clause—
LXXXV A LIGHT exists in spring Not present on the year At any other period. When March is scarcely here
878 The Sun is gay or stark According to our Deed. If Merry, He is merrier— If eager for the Dead
975 The Mountain sat upon the Plain In his tremendous Chair— His observation omnifold, His inquest, everywhere—
788 Joy to have merited the Pain— To merit the Release— Joy to have perished every step— To Compass Paradise—
His bill an auger is, His head, a cap and frill. He laboreth at every tree,— A worm his utmost goal.
447 Could—I do more—for Thee— Wert Thou a Bumble Bee— Since for the Queen, have I— Nought but Bouquet?
349 I had the Glory—that will do— An Honor, Thought can turn her to When lesser Fames invite— With one long “Nay”—