#Americans #Women #XIXCentury
57 To venerate the simple days Which lead the seasons by, Needs but to remember That from you or I,
The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,— The sweeping up the heart,
354 From Cocoon forth a Butterfly As Lady from her Door Emerged—a Summer Afternoon— Repairing Everywhere—
XII I CANNOT live with you, It would be life, And life is over there Behind the shelf
463 I live with Him — I see His face… I go no more away For Visitor — or Sundown — Death's single privacy
896 Of Silken Speech and Specious Sh… A Traitor is the Bee His service to the newest Grace Present continually
735 Upon Concluded Lives There’s nothing cooler falls— Than Life’s sweet Calculations— The mixing Bells and Palls—
His bill an auger is, His head, a cap and frill. He laboreth at every tree,— A worm his utmost goal.
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,
251 Over the fence— Strawberries—grow— Over the fence— I could climb—if I tried, I know—
856 There is a finished feeling Experienced at Graves— A leisure of the Future— A Wilderness of Size.
You said that I “was Great”'—one… Then “Great” it be’—if that pleas… Or Small’—or any size at all’— Nay’—I’m the size suit Thee’— Tall’—like the Stag’—would that?
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,
1034 His Bill an Auger is, His Head, a Cap and Frill. He laboreth at every Tree A Worm, His utmost Goal.
351 I felt my life with both my hands To see if it was there— I held my spirit to the Glass, To prove it possibler—
