#AmericanWriters
The Butterfly in honored Dust Assuredly will lie But none will pass the Catacomb So chastened as the Fly -
685 Not “Revelation”—'tis—that waits, But our unfurnished eyes—
710 The Sunrise runs for Both— The East—Her Purple Troth Keeps with the Hill— The Noon unwinds Her Blue
208 The Rose did caper on her cheek— Her Bodice rose and fell— Her pretty speech—like drunken men… Did stagger pitiful—
62 “Sown in dishonor”! Ah! Indeed! May this “dishonor” be? If I were half so fine myself
155 The Murmur of a Bee A Witchcraft—yieldeth me— If any ask me why— ’Twere easier to die—
The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,— The sweeping up the heart,
659 That first Day, when you praised… And said that I was strong— And could be mighty, if I liked— That Day—the Days among—
760 Most she touched me by her mutenes… Most she won me by the way She presented her small figure— Plea itself—for Charity—
497 He strained my faith— Did he find it supple? Shook my strong trust— Did it then—yield?
XIX PAIN has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not.
684 Best Gains’—must have the Losses’… To constitute them’—Gains’—
534 We see—Comparatively— The Thing so towering high We could not grasp its segment Unaided—Yesterday—
Air has no Residence, no Neighbor… No Ear, no Door, No Apprehension of Another Oh, Happy Air! Ethereal Guest at e’en an Outcast…
679 Conscious am I in my Chamber, Of a shapeless friend— He doth not attest by Posture— Nor Confirm—by Word—