#AmericanWriters
853 When One has given up One’s life The parting with the rest Feels easy, as when Day lets go Entirely the West
899 Herein a Blossom lies— A Sepulchre, between— Cross it, and overcome the Bee— Remain—'tis but a Rind.
Her final summer was it, And yet we guessed it not; If tenderer industriousness Pervaded her, we thought A further force of life
Nature the gentlest mother is, Impatient of no child, The feeblest of the waywardest. Her admonition mild In forest and the hill
941 The Lady feeds Her little Bird At rarer intervals— The little Bird would not dissent But meekly recognize
99 New feet within my garden go— New fingers stir the sod— A Troubadour upon the Elm Betrays the solitude.
661 Could I but ride indefinite As doth the Meadow Bee And visit only where I liked And No one visit me
20 Distrustful of the Gentian— And just to turn away, The fluttering of her fringes Child my perfidy—
552 An ignorance a Sunset Confer upon the Eye— Of Territory—Color— Circumference&mda sh;Decay—
The Butterfly upon the Sky, That doesn’t know its Name And hasn’t any tax to pay And hasn’t any Home Is just as high as you and I,
A Word dropped careless on a Page May stimulate an eye When folded in perpetual seam The Wrinkled Maker lie Infection in the sentence breeds
MINE enemy is growing old, I have at last revenge. The palate of the hate departs; If any would avenge, Let him be quick, the viand flits,
778 This that would greet—an hour ago— Is quaintest Distance—now— Had it a Guest from Paradise— Nor glow, would it, nor bow—
884 As Everywhere of Silver With Ropes of Sand To keep it from effacing The Track called Land.
233 The Lamp burns sure—within— Tho’ Serfs—supply the Oil— It matters not the busy Wick— At her phosphoric toil!