#AmericanWriters
The Butterfly in honored Dust Assuredly will lie But none will pass the Catacomb So chastened as the Fly -
608 Afraid! Of whom am I afraid? Not Death—for who is He? The Porter of my Father’s Lodge As much abasheth me!
176 I’m the little “Heart’s Ease”! I don’t care for pouting skies! If the Butterfly delay Can I, therefore, stay away?
How fits his Umber Coat The Tailor of the Nut? Combined without a seam Like Raiment of a Dream - Who spun the Auburn Cloth?
The brain within its groove Runs evenly and true; But let a splinter swerve, ‘T were easier for you To put the water back
687 I’ll send the feather from my Hat… Who knows—but at the sight of that My Sovereign will relent? As trinket—worn by faded Child—
548 Death is potential to that Man Who dies—and to his friend— Beyond that—unconspicuous To Anyone but God—
If all the griefs I am to have Would only come today, I am so happy I believe They’d laugh and run away. If all the joys I am to have
306 The Soul’s Superior instants Occur to Her—alone— When friend—and Earth’s occasion Have infinite withdrawn—
727 Precious to Me—She still shall be… Though She forget the name I bear… The fashion of the Gown I wear— The very Color of My Hair—
The Beggar at the Door for Fame Were easily supplied But Bread is that Diviner thing Disclosed to be denied
406 Some’—Work for Immortality’— The Chiefer part, for Time’— He’—Compensates’—immediately’— The former’—Checks’—on Fame’—
A little Madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King, But God be with the Clown - Who ponders this tremendous scene… This whole Experiment of Green -
563 I could not prove the Years had f… Yet confident they run Am I, from symptoms that are past And Series that are done—
7 The feet of people walking home With gayer sandals go— The Crocus—til she rises The Vassal of the snow—