#AmericanWriters
This is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,- The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty Her message is committed
LXXXVIII HEAVEN is what I cannot reach! The apple on the tree, Provided it do hopeless hang, That “heaven” is, to me.
914 I cannot be ashamed Because I cannot see The love you offer— Magnitude
Pink, small, and punctual, Aromatic, low, Covert in April, Candid in May, Dear to the moss,
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…
Not with a club, the Heart is bro… Nor with a stone; A whip, so small you could not see… I’ve known To lash the magic creature
589 The Night was wide, and furnished… With but a single Star— That often as a Cloud it met— Blew out itself—for fear—
1670 In Winter in my Room I came upon a Worm— Pink, lank and warm— But as he was a worm
962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—
570 I could die’—to know’— ’Tis a trifling knowledge’— News-Boys salute the Door’— Carts’—joggle by’—
980 Purple—is fashionable twice— This season of the year, And when a soul perceives itself To be an Emperor.
673 The Love a Life can show Below Is but a filament, I know, Of that diviner thing That faints upon the face of Noon…
Each life converges to some centre Expressed or still; Exists in every human nature A goal, Admitted scarcely to itself, it ma…
LX The grass so little has to do,— A sphere of simple green, With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain,
306 The Soul’s Superior instants Occur to Her—alone— When friend—and Earth’s occasion Have infinite withdrawn—