#AmericanWriters
566 A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink— I hunted all the Sand— I caught the Dripping of a Rock And bore it in my Hand—
519 ’Twas warm—at first—like Us— Until there crept upon A Chill—like frost upon a Glass— Till all the scene—be gone.
949 Under the Light, yet under, Under the Grass and the Dirt, Under the Beetle’s Cellar Under the Clover’s Root,
428 Taking up the fair Ideal, Just to cast her down When a fracture—we discover— Or a splintered Crown—
71 A throe upon the features— A hurry in the breath— An ecstasy of parting Denominated “Death”—
977 Besides this May We know There is Another— How fair
The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,— The sweeping up the heart,
It's thoughts—and just One Heart— And Old Sunshine—about— Make frugal—Ones—Content— And two or three—for Company— Upon a Holiday—
852 Apology for Her Be rendered by the Bee— Herself, without a Parliament Apology for Me.
6 Frequently the wood are pink— Frequently are brown. Frequently the hills undress Behind my native town.
227 Teach Him’—When He makes the nam… Such an one’—to say’— On his babbling’—Berry’—lips’— As should sound’—to me’—
689 The Zeroes—taught us—Phosphorous— We learned to like the Fire By playing Glaciers—when a Boy— And Tinder—guessed—by power
62 “Sown in dishonor”! Ah! Indeed! May this “dishonor” be? If I were half so fine myself
959 A loss of something ever felt I— The first that I could recollect Bereft I was—of what I knew not Too young that any should suspect
“I want”—it pleaded—All its life— I want—was chief it said When Skill entreated it—the last— And when so newly dead— I could not deem it late—to hear