#AmericanWriters
1763 Fame is a bee. It has a song— It has a sting— Ah, too, it has a wing.
Our lives are Swiss— So still—so Cool— Till some odd afternoon The Alps neglect their Curtains And we look farther on!
LXXXIX A WORD is dead When it is said, Some say. I say it just
71 A throe upon the features— A hurry in the breath— An ecstasy of parting Denominated “Death”—
161 A feather from the Whippoorwill That everlasting—sings! Whose galleries—are Sunrise— Whose Opera—the Springs—
LVIII PORTRAITS are to daily faces As an evening west To a fine, pedantic sunshine In a satin vest.
Lightly stepped a yellow star To its lofty place - Loosed the Moon her silver hat From her lustral Face - All of Evening softly lit
Why – do they shut Me out of Heav… Did I sing – too loud? But – I can say a little “minor” Timid as a Bird! Wouldn’t the Angels try me –
463 I live with Him — I see His face… I go no more away For Visitor — or Sundown — Death's single privacy
513 Like Flowers, that heard the news… But never deemed the dripping priz… Awaited their—low Brows— Or Bees—that thought the Summer’s…
XIX I STARTED early, took my dog, And visited the sea; The mermaids in the basement Came out to look at me,
565 One Anguish—in a Crowd— A Minor thing—it sounds— And yet, unto the single Doe Attempted of the Hounds
839 Always Mine! No more Vacation! Term of Light this Day begun! Failless as the fair rotation
758 These’—saw Visions’— Latch them softly’— These’—held Dimples’— Smooth them slow’—
939 What I see not, I better see— Through Faith—my Hazel Eye Has periods of shutting— But, No lid has Memory—