#AmericanWriters
375 The Angle of a Landscape— That every time I wake— Between my Curtain and the Wall Upon an ample Crack—
828 The Robin is the One That interrupt the Morn With hurried—few—express Reports When March is scarcely on—
923 How the Waters closed above Him We shall never know— How He stretched His Anguish to… That—is covered too—
I like to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step Around a pile of mountains,
345 Funny’—to be a Century’— And see the People’—going by’— I’—should die of the Oddity’— But then’—I’m not so staid’—as He…
230 We—Bee and I—live by the quaffing… ’Tisn’t all Hock—with us— Life has its Ale— But it’s many a lay of the Dim Bu…
257 Delight is as the flight— Or in the Ratio of it, As the Schools would say— The Rainbow’s way—
620 It makes no difference abroad— The Seasons—fit—the same— The Mornings blossom into Noons— And split their Pods of Flame—
154 Except to Heaven, she is nought. Except for Angels—lone. Except to some wide-wandering Bee A flower superfluous blown.
707 The Grace—Myself—might not obtain… Confer upon My flower— Refracted but a Countenance— For I—inhabit Her—
755 No Bobolink—reverse His Singing When the only Tree Ever He minded occupying By the Farmer be—
234 You’re right—“the way is narrow”— And “difficult the Gate”— And “few there be”—Correct again— That “enter in—thereat”—
The sky is low, the clouds are mea… A travelling flake of snow Across a barn or through a rut Debates if it will go. A narrow wind complains all day
A thought went up my mind to-day That I have had before, But did not finish,—some way back, I could not fix the year, Nor where it went, nor why it came
IX THE heart asks pleasure first, And then, excuse from pain; And then, those little anodynes That deaden suffering;