#AmericanWriters
The Work of Her that went, The Toil of Fellows done - In Ovens green our Mother bakes, By Fires of the Sun.
215 What is – “Paradise” – Who live there – Are they “Farmers” – Do they “hoe” –
161 A feather from the Whippoorwill That everlasting—sings! Whose galleries—are Sunrise— Whose Opera—the Springs—
Come slowly, Eden Lips unused to thee. Bashful, sip thy jasmines, As the fainting bee,
262 The lonesome for they know not Wh… The Eastern Exiles—be— Who strayed beyond the Amber line Some madder Holiday—
6 Frequently the wood are pink— Frequently are brown. Frequently the hills undress Behind my native town.
1670 In Winter in my Room I came upon a Worm— Pink, lank and warm— But as he was a worm
XXII I GAVE myself to him, And took himself for pay. The solemn contract of a life Was ratified this way.
Part Five: The Single Hound XLIX The duties of the Wind are few— To cast the ships, at Sea, Establish March, the Floods escor…
A lane of Yellow led the eye Unto a Purple Wood Whose soft inhabitants to be Surpasses solitude If Bird the silence contradict
460 I know where Wells grow’—Droughtl… Deep dug’—for Summer days’— Where Mosses go no more away’— And Pebble’—safely plays’—
798 She staked her Feathers—Gained an… Debated—Rose again— This time—beyond the estimate Of Envy, or of Men—
897 How fortunate the Grave— All Prizes to obtain— Successful certain, if at last, First Suitor not in vain.
200 I stole them from a Bee— Because—Thee— Sweet plea— He pardoned me!
The wind tapped like a tired man, And like a host, ‘Come in,’ I boldly answered; entered then My residence within A rapid, footless guest,