#AmericanWriters
821 Away from Home are some and I— An Emigrant to be In a Metropolis of Homes Is easy, possibly—
208 The Rose did caper on her cheek— Her Bodice rose and fell— Her pretty speech—like drunken men… Did stagger pitiful—
THE BAT is dun with wrinkled wi… Like fallow article, And not a song pervades his lips, Or none perceptible. His small umbrella, quaintly halve…
111 The Bee is not afraid of me. I know the Butterfly. The pretty people in the Woods Receive me cordially—
He ate and drank the precious Wor… His Spirit grew robust— He knew no more that he was poor, Nor that his frame was Dust— He danced along the dingy Days
This was a Poet —It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings — And Attar so immense From the familiar species
793 Grief is a Mouse— And chooses Wainscot in the Breas… For His Shy House— And baffles quest—
I noticed People disappeared When but a little child - Supposed they visited remote Or settled Regions wild - But did because they died
728 Let Us play Yesterday— I—the Girl at school— You—and Eternity—the Untold Tale—
845 Be Mine the Doom— Sufficient Fame— To perish in Her Hand!
’Twas comfort in her Dying Room To hear the living Clock— A short relief to have the wind Walk boldly up and knock— Diversion from the Dying Theme
XLIX A POOR torn heart, a tattered he… That sat it down to rest, Nor noticed that the ebbing day Flowed silver to the west,
722 Sweet Mountains—Ye tell me no lie… Never deny Me—Never fly— Those same unvarying Eyes Turn on Me—when I fail—or feign,
663 Again—his voice is at the door— I feel the old Degree— I hear him ask the servant For such an one—as me—
899 Herein a Blossom lies— A Sepulchre, between— Cross it, and overcome the Bee— Remain—'tis but a Rind.