#AmericanWriters
His bill an auger is, His head, a cap and frill. He laboreth at every tree,— A worm his utmost goal.
671 She dwelleth in the Ground— Where Daffodils—abide— Her Maker—Her Metropolis— The Universe—Her Maid—
A drop fell on the apple tree, Another on the roof; A half a dozen kissed the eaves, And made the gables laugh. A few went out to help the brook,
873 Ribbons of the Year— Multitude Brocade— Worn to Nature’s Party once Then, as flung aside
453 Love — thou art high — I cannot climb thee — But, were it Two — Who knows but we —
430 It would never be Common — more —… Difference — had begun — Many a bitterness — had been — But that old sort — was done —
168 If the foolish, call them “flowers… Need the wiser, tell? If the Savants “Classify” them It is just as well!
1510 How happy is the little Stone That rambles in the Road alone, And doesn’t care about Careers And Exigencies never fears—
XVII SHE rose to his requirement, drop… The playthings of her life To take the honorable work Of woman and of wife.
I like to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step Around a pile of mountains,
930 There is a June when Corn is cut And Roses in the Seed— A Summer briefer than the first But tenderer indeed
48 Once more, my now bewildered Dove Bestirs her puzzled wings Once more her mistress, on the dee… Her troubled question flings—
532 I tried to think a lonelier Thing Than any I had seen— Some Polar Expiation—An Omen in… Of Death’s tremendous nearness—
638 To my small Hearth His fire came— And all my House aglow Did fan and rock, with sudden ligh… ’Twas Sunrise—'twas the Sky—
120 If this is “fading” Oh let me immediately “fade”! If this is “dying” Bury me, in such a shroud of red!