#AmericanWriters
The Grass so little has to do— A Sphere of simple Green— With only Butterflies to brood And Bees to entertain— And stir all day to pretty Tunes
The Soul selects her own Society— Then—shuts the Door— To her divine Majority— Present no more— Unmoved—she notes the Chariots—pa…
213 Did the Harebell loose her girdle To the lover Bee Would the Bee the Harebell hallow Much as formerly?
381 A Secret told— Ceases to be a Secret—then— A Secret—kept— That—can appal but One—
44 If she had been the Mistletoe And I had been the Rose— How gay upon your table My velvet life to close—
271 A solemn thing—it was—I said— A woman—white—to be— And wear—if God should count me f… Her blameless mystery—
40 When I count the seeds That are sown beneath, To bloom so, bye and bye— When I con the people
55 By Chivalries as tiny, A Blossom, or a Book, The seeds of smiles are planted— Which blossom in the dark.
Whether they have forgotten Or are forgetting now Or never remembered - Safer not to know - Miseries of conjecture
343 My Reward for Being, was This. My premium—My Bliss— An Admiralty, less— A Sceptre—penniless—
Volcanoes be in Sicily And South America I judge from my Geography - Volcanos nearer here A Lava step at any time
63 If pain for peace prepares Lo, what “Augustan” years Our feet await! If springs from winter rise,
18 The Gentian weaves her fringes— The Maple’s loom is red— My departing blossoms Obviate parade.
291 How the old Mountains drip with S… How the Hemlocks burn— How the Dun Brake is draped in C… By the Wizard Sun—
756 One Blessing had I than the rest So larger to my Eyes That I stopped gauging—satisfied— For this enchanted size—