#AmericanWriters
331 While Asters— On the Hill— Their Everlasting fashions—set— And Covenant Gentians—Frill!
Witchcraft has not a Pedigree ’Tis early as our Breath And mourners meet it going out The moment of our death—
168 If the foolish, call them “flowers… Need the wiser, tell? If the Savants “Classify” them It is just as well!
825 An Hour is a Sea Between a few, and me— With them would Harbor be—
163 Tho’ my destiny be Fustian— Hers be damask fine— Tho’ she wear a silver apron— I, a less divine—
They shut me up in Prose— As when a little Girl They put me in the Closet— Because they liked me “still”— Still! Could themself have peeped…
I noticed People disappeared When but a little child - Supposed they visited remote Or settled Regions wild - But did because they died
THE Brain—is wider than the sky— For—put them side by side— The one the other will include With ease—and you—beside— The Brain is deeper than the sea—
577 If I may have it, when it’s dead, I’ll be contented—so— If just as soon as Breath is out It shall belong to me—
82 Whose cheek is this? What rosy face Has lost a blush today? I found her—"pleiad"—in the woods
LXXXVIII HEAVEN is what I cannot reach! The apple on the tree, Provided it do hopeless hang, That “heaven” is, to me.
DEAR March, come in! How glad I am! I looked for you before. Put down your hat— You must have walked—
717 The Beggar Lad—dies early— It’s Somewhat in the Cold— And Somewhat in the Trudging feet… And haply, in the World—
786 Severer Service of myself I—hastened to demand To fill the awful Vacuum Your life had left behind—
122 A something in a summer’s Day As slow her flambeaux burn away Which solemnizes me. A something in a summer’s noon—