#AmericanWriters
71 A throe upon the features— A hurry in the breath— An ecstasy of parting Denominated “Death”—
376 Of Course—I prayed— And did God Care? He cared as much as on the Air A Bird—had stamped her foot—
Of Brussels—it was not— Of Kidderminster? Nay— The Winds did buy it of the Woods… They—sold it unto me It was a gentle price—
To mend each tattered Faith There is a needle fair Though no appearance indicate ’Tis threaded in the Air And though it do not wear
1510 How happy is the little Stone That rambles in the Road alone, And doesn’t care about Careers And Exigencies never fears—
82 Whose cheek is this? What rosy face Has lost a blush today? I found her—"pleiad"—in the woods
350 They leave us with the Infinite. But He—is not a man— His fingers are the size of fists— His fists, the size of men—
Me! Come! My dazzled face In such a shining place! Me! Hear! My foreign ear The sounds of welcome near! The saints shall meet
464 The power to be true to You, Until upon my face The Judgment push his Picture— Presumptuous of Your Place—
40 When I count the seeds That are sown beneath, To bloom so, bye and bye— When I con the people
To see her is a Picture— To hear her is a Tune— To know her an Intemperance As innocent as June— To know her not—Affliction—
716 The Day undressed—Herself— Her Garter—was of Gold— Her Petticoat—of Purple plain— Her Dimities—as old
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
262 The lonesome for they know not Wh… The Eastern Exiles—be— Who strayed beyond the Amber line Some madder Holiday—
150 She died—this was the way she died… And when her breath was done Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun—