#AmericanWriters
264 A Weight with Needles on the poun… To push, and pierce, besides— That if the Flesh resist the Heft… The puncture—coolly tries—
384 No Rack can torture me— My Soul—at Liberty— Behind this mortal Bone There knits a bolder One—
I bet with every Wind that blew Till Nature in chagrin Employed a Fact to visit me And scuttle my Balloon -
506 He touched me, so I live to know That such a day, permitted so, I groped upon his breast— It was a boundless place to me
Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate Whose table once a Guest but not The second time is set.
731 “I want”—it pleaded—All its life— I want—was chief it said When Skill entreated it—the last— And when so newly dead—
864 The Robin for the Crumb Returns no syllable But long records the Lady’s name In Silver Chronicle.
II OUR share of night to bear, Our share of morning, Our blank in bliss to fill, Our blank in scorning.
989 Gratitude—is not the mention Of a Tenderness, But its still appreciation Out of Plumb of Speech.
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—
After a hundred years Nobody knows the place,— Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace. Weeds triumphant ranged,
Why – do they shut Me out of Heav… Did I sing – too loud? But – I can say a little “minor” Timid as a Bird! Wouldn’t the Angels try me –
729 Alter! When the Hills do— Falter! When the Sun Question if His Glory Be the Perfect One—
835 Nature and God—I neither knew Yet Both so well knew me They startled, like Executors Of My identity.
373 I’m saying every day “If I should be a Queen, tomorrow… I’d do this way— And so I deck, a little,