#AmericanWriters
35 Nobody knows this little Rose— It might a pilgrim be Did I not take it from the ways And lift it up to thee.
720 No Prisoner be— Where Liberty— Himself—abide with Thee—
612 It would have starved a Gnat— To live so small as I— And yet I was a living Child— With Food’s necessity
980 Purple—is fashionable twice— This season of the year, And when a soul perceives itself To be an Emperor.
321 Of all the Sounds despatched abro… There’s not a Charge to me Like that old measure in the Boug… That phraseless Melody—
206 The Flower must not blame the Bee… That seeketh his felicity Too often at her door— But teach the Footman from Vevay—
Some Days retired from the rest In soft distinction lie The Day that a Companion came Or was obliged to die
770 I lived on Dread— To Those who know The Stimulus there is In Danger—Other impetus
15 The Guest is gold and crimson— An Opal guest and gray— Of Ermine is his doublet— His Capuchin gay—
VII WITHIN my reach! I could have touched! I might have chanced that way! Soft sauntered through the village…
370 Heaven is so far of the Mind That were the Mind dissolved— The Site—of it—by Architect Could not again be proved—
30 Adrift! A little boat adrift! And night is coming down! Will no one guide a little boat Unto the nearest town?
93 Went up a year this evening! I recollect it well! Amid no bells nor bravoes The bystanders will tell!
645 Bereavement in their death to feel Whom We have never seen— A Vital Kinsmanship import Our Soul and theirs—between—
XIX I STARTED early, took my dog, And visited the sea; The mermaids in the basement Came out to look at me,