#AmericanWriters
962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—
148 All overgrown by cunning moss, All interspersed with weed, The little cage of “Currer Bell” In quiet “Haworth” laid.
707 The Grace—Myself—might not obtain… Confer upon My flower— Refracted but a Countenance— For I—inhabit Her—
281 ’Tis so appalling—it exhilarates— So over Horror, it half Captivate… The Soul stares after it, secure— A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more…
XXXII HOPE is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the wor… And never stops at all,
886 These tested Our Horizon— Then disappeared As Birds before achieving A Latitude.
He preached upon ‘Breadth’ till i… The Broad are too broad to define And of ‘Truth’ until it proclaime… The Truth never flaunted a Sign— Simplicity fled from his counterfe…
913 And this of all my Hopes This, is the silent end Bountiful colored, my Morning ros… Early and sere, its end
588 I cried at Pity—not at Pain— I heard a Woman say “Poor Child”—and something in her… Convicted me—of me—
461 A Wife—at daybreak I shall be— Sunrise—Hast thou a Flag for me? At Midnight, I am but a Maid, How short it takes to make a Brid…
470 I am alive—I guess— The Branches on my Hand Are full of Morning Glory— And at my finger’s end—
Had we our senses But perhaps ’tis well they’re not… So intimate with Madness He’s liable with them Had we the eyes without our Head—
176 I’m the little “Heart’s Ease”! I don’t care for pouting skies! If the Butterfly delay Can I, therefore, stay away?
256 If I’m lost—now That I was found— Shall still my transport be— That once—on me—those Jasper Gate…
424 Removed from Accident of Loss By Accident of Gain Befalling not my simple Days— Myself had just to earn—