#AmericanWriters
153 Dust is the only Secret— Death, the only One You cannot find out all about In his “native town.”
The wind tapped like a tired man, And like a host, ‘Come in,’ I boldly answered; entered then My residence within A rapid, footless guest,
Like trains of cars on tracks of p… I hear the level bee: A jar across the flowers goes, Their velvet masonry Withstands until the sweet assault
783 The Birds begun at Four o’clock— Their period for Dawn— A Music numerous as space— But neighboring as Noon—
XI MUCH madness is divinest sense To a discerning eye; Much sense the starkest madness. ’T is the majority
617 Don’t put up my Thread and Needle… I’ll begin to Sew When the Birds begin to whistle— Better Stitches—so—
480 “Why do I love” You, Sir? Because— The Wind does not require the Gra… To answer—Wherefore when He pass
634 You’ll know Her—by Her Foot— The smallest Gamboge Hand With Fingers—where the Toes shoul… Would more affront the Sand—
751 My Worthiness is all my Doubt— His Merit—all my fear— Contrasting which, my quality Do lowlier—appear—
LX The grass so little has to do,— A sphere of simple green, With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain,
164 Mama never forgets her birds, Though in another tree— She looks down just as often And just as tenderly
815 The Luxury to apprehend The Luxury 'twould be To look at Thee a single time An Epicure of Me
677 To be alive’—is Power’— Existence’—in itself’— Without a further function’— Omnipotence’—Enough’—
593 I think I was enchanted When first a sombre Girl— I read that Foreign Lady— The Dark—felt beautiful—
252 I can wade Grief— Whole Pools of it— I’m used to that— But the least push of Joy