#AmericanWriters
657 I dwell in Possibility— A fairer House than Prose— More numerous of Windows— Superior—for Doors—
XIII THE soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more.
784 Bereaved of all, I went abroad— No less bereaved was I Upon a New Peninsula— The Grave preceded me—
213 Did the Harebell loose her girdle To the lover Bee Would the Bee the Harebell hallow Much as formerly?
652 A Prison gets to be a friend— Between its Ponderous face And Ours—a Kinsmanship express— And in its narrow Eyes—
934 That is solemn we have ended Be it but a Play Or a Glee among the Garret Or a Holiday
883 The Poets light but Lamps— Themselves—go out— The Wicks they stimulate— If vital Light
The spry Arms of the Wind If I could crawl between I have an errand imminent To an adjoining Zone - I should not care to stop
1100 The last Night that She lived It was a Common Night Except the Dying—this to Us Made Nature different
354 From Cocoon forth a Butterfly As Lady from her Door Emerged—a Summer Afternoon— Repairing Everywhere—
789 On a Columnar Self— How ample to rely In Tumult—or Extremity— How good the Certainty
748 Autumn—overlooked my Knitting— Dyes—said He—have I— Could disparage a Flamingo— Show Me them—said I—
269 Bound—a trouble— And lives can bear it! Limit—how deep a bleeding go! So—many—drops—of vital scarlet—
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…
XXX WE play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool.