#AmericanWriters
467 We do not play on Graves— Because there isn’t Room— Besides—it isn’t even—it slants And People come—
959 A loss of something ever felt I— The first that I could recollect Bereft I was—of what I knew not Too young that any should suspect
410 The first Day’s Night had come— And grateful that a thing So terrible—had been endured— I told my Soul to sing—
282 How noteless Men, and Pleiads, st… Until a sudden sky Reveals the fact that One is rapt Forever from the Eye—
421 A Charm invests a face Imperfectly beheld— The Lady dare not lift her Veil For fear it be dispelled—
729 Alter! When the Hills do— Falter! When the Sun Question if His Glory Be the Perfect One—
969 He who in Himself believes— Fraud cannot presume— Faith is Constancy’s Result— And assumes—from Home—
Not with a club, the Heart is bro… Nor with a stone; A whip, so small you could not see… I’ve known To lash the magic creature
I saw the wind within her I knew it blew for me '— But she must buy my shelter I asked Humility
20 Distrustful of the Gentian— And just to turn away, The fluttering of her fringes Child my perfidy—
911 Too little way the House must lie From every Human Heart That holds in undisputed Lease A white inhabitant—
941 The Lady feeds Her little Bird At rarer intervals— The little Bird would not dissent But meekly recognize
23 I had a guinea golden— I lost it in the sand— And tho’ the sum was simple And pounds were in the land—
A fuzzy fellow, without feet, Yet doth exceeding run! Of velvet, is his Countenance, And his Complexion, dun! Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass…
His bill an auger is, His head, a cap and frill. He laboreth at every tree,— A worm his utmost goal.