#AmericanWriters
964 “Unto Me?” I do not know you— Where may be your House? “I am Jesus—Late of Judea— Now—of Paradise”—
The Hills in Purple syllables The Day’s Adventures tell To little Groups of Continents Just going Home from School.
779 The Service without Hope— Is tenderest, I think— Because ’tis unsustained By stint—Rewarded Work—
483 A Solemn thing within the Soul To feel itself get ripe— And golden hang—while farther up— The Maker’s Ladders stop—
Death is like the insect Menacing the tree, Competent to kill it, But decoyed may be. Bait it with the balsam,
853 When One has given up One’s life The parting with the rest Feels easy, as when Day lets go Entirely the West
156 You love me—you are sure— I shall not fear mistake— I shall not cheated wake— Some grinning morn—
XII I ASKED no other thing, No other was denied. I offered Being for it; The mighty merchant smiled.
86 South Winds jostle them— Bumblebees come— Hover—hesitate— Dri nk, and are gone—
213 Did the Harebell loose her girdle To the lover Bee Would the Bee the Harebell hallow Much as formerly?
The Soul unto itself Is an imperial friend— Or the most agonizing Spy— An Enemy—could send— Secure against its own—
XXVI THE brain within its groove Runs evenly and true; But let a splinter swerve, ’T were easier for you
403 The Winters are so short— I’m hardly justified In sending all the Birds away— And moving into Pod—
An Antiquated Tree Is cherished of the Crow Because that Junior Foliage is di… To venerable Birds Whose Corporation Coat
114 Good night, because we must, How intricate the dust! I would go, to know! Oh incognito!