#AmericanWriters
The Work of Her that went, The Toil of Fellows done - In Ovens green our Mother bakes, By Fires of the Sun.
236 If He dissolve – then – there is… Eclipse – at Midnight – It was dark – before – Sunset – at Easter –
636 The Way I read a Letter’s—this— ’Tis first—I lock the Door— And push it with my fingers—next— For transport it be sure—
922 Those who have been in the Grave… Those who begin Today— Equally perish from our Practise— Death is the other way—
XLI THE soul unto itself Is an imperial friend,— Or the most agonizing spy An enemy could send.
186 What shall I do—it whimpers so— This little Hound within the Hear… All day and night with bark and st… And yet, it will not go—
825 An Hour is a Sea Between a few, and me— With them would Harbor be—
The Face we choose to miss - Be it but for a Day As absent as a Hundred Years, When it has rode away.
631 Ourselves were wed one summer’—dea… Your Vision’—was in June’— And when Your little Lifetime fai… I wearied’—too’—of mine’—
470 I am alive—I guess— The Branches on my Hand Are full of Morning Glory— And at my finger’s end—
562 Conjecturing a Climate Of unsuspended Suns— Adds poignancy to Winter— The Shivering Fancy turns
684 Best Gains’—must have the Losses’… To constitute them’—Gains’—
201 Two swimmers wrestled on the spar— Until the morning sun— When One—turned smiling to the la… Oh God! the Other One!
I went to heaven,— ‘T was a small town, Lit with a ruby, Lathed with down. Stiller than the fields
797 By my Window have I for Scenery Just a Sea—with a Stem— If the Bird and the Farmer—deem i… The Opinion will serve—for them—