#AmericanWriters
911 Too little way the House must lie From every Human Heart That holds in undisputed Lease A white inhabitant—
XXI HE ate and drank the precious wor… His spirit grew robust; He knew no more that he was poor, Nor that his frame was dust.
707 The Grace—Myself—might not obtain… Confer upon My flower— Refracted but a Countenance— For I—inhabit Her—
281 ’Tis so appalling—it exhilarates— So over Horror, it half Captivate… The Soul stares after it, secure— A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more…
962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—
523 Sweet—You forgot—but I remembered Every time—for Two— So that the Sum be never hindered Through Decay of You—
997 Crumbling is not an instant’s Act A fundamental pause Dilapidation’s processes Are organized Decays.
329 So glad we are’—a Stranger’d deem ’Twas sorry, that we were’— For where the Holiday should be There publishes a Tear’—
They shut me up in Prose— As when a little Girl They put me in the Closet— Because they liked me “still”— Still! Could themself have peeped…
526 To hear an Oriole sing May be a common thing— Or only a divine. It is not of the Bird
927 Absent Place—an April Day— Daffodils a-blow Homesick curiosity To the Souls that snow—
887 We outgrow love, like other things And put it in the Drawer— Till it an Antique fashion shows— Like Costumes Grandsires wore.
657 I dwell in Possibility— A fairer House than Prose— More numerous of Windows— Superior—for Doors—
423 The Months have ends—the Years—a… No Power can untie To stretch a little further A Skein of Misery—
703 Out of sight? What of that? See the Bird—reach it! Curve by Curve—Sweep by Sweep— Round the Steep Air—