#AmericanWriters
204 A slash of Blue— A sweep of Gray— Some scarlet patches on the way, Compose an Evening Sky—
820 All Circumstances are the Frame In which His Face is set— All Latitudes exist for His Sufficient Continent—
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,
322 There came a Day at Summer’s full… Entirely for me— I thought that such were for the… Where Resurrections—be—
148 All overgrown by cunning moss, All interspersed with weed, The little cage of “Currer Bell” In quiet “Haworth” laid.
The Work of Her that went, The Toil of Fellows done - In Ovens green our Mother bakes, By Fires of the Sun.
After a hundred years Nobody knows the place,— Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace. Weeds triumphant ranged,
He ate and drank the precious Wor… His Spirit grew robust— He knew no more that he was poor, Nor that his frame was Dust— He danced along the dingy Days
XXVII I’m Nobody! Who are you? Are you—Nobody—too? Then there’s a pair of us! Don’t tell! they’d advertise—you k…
921 If it had no pencil Would it try mine— Worn—now—and dull—sweet, Writing much to thee.
Epigram THIS is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,— The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty.
283 A Mien to move a Queen— Half Child—Half Heroine— An Orleans in the Eye That puts its manner by
XL I NEVER lost as much but twice, And that was in the sod; Twice have I stood a beggar Before the door of God!
676 Least Bee that brew— A Honey’s Weight Content Her smallest fraction hel… The Amber Quantity—
69 Low at my problem bending, Another problem comes— Larger than mine—Serener— Involving statelier sums.