#AmericanWriters
118 My friend attacks my friend! Oh Battle picturesque! Then I turn Soldier too, And he turns Satirist!
450 Dreams—are well—but Waking’s bett… If One wake at morn— If One wake at Midnight—better— Dreaming—of the Dawn—
46 I keep my pledge. I was not called— Death did not notice me. I bring my Rose.
XIV I’M ceded, I ’ve stopped being th… The name they dropped upon my face With water, in the country church, Is finished using now,
663 Again—his voice is at the door— I feel the old Degree— I hear him ask the servant For such an one—as me—
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,
819 All I may, if small, Do it not display Larger for the Totalness— ’Tis Economy
359 I gained it so— By Climbing slow— By Catching at the Twigs that gro… Between the Bliss—and me—
588 I cried at Pity—not at Pain— I heard a Woman say “Poor Child”—and something in her… Convicted me—of me—
Good night! which put the candle o… A jealous zephyr, not a doubt. Ah! friend, you little knew How long at that celestial wick The angels labored diligent;
956 What shall I do when the Summer t… What, when the Rose is ripe— What when the Eggs fly off in Mus… From the Maple Keep?
“Speech”'—is a prank of Parliamen… “Tears”'—is a trick of the nerve’— But the Heart with the heaviest f… Doesn’t’—always’—move’—
Longing is like the Seed That wrestles in the Ground, Believing if it intercede It shall at length be found. The Hour, and the Clime -
394 ’Twas Love’—not me’— Oh punish’—pray’— The Real one died for Thee’— Just Him’—not me’—
35 Nobody knows this little Rose— It might a pilgrim be Did I not take it from the ways And lift it up to thee.