#AmericanWriters
The earth has many keys, Where melody is not Is the unknown peninsula. Beauty is nature’s fact. But witness for her land,
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
573 The Test of Love—is Death— Our Lord—"so loved"—it saith— What Largest Lover—hath Another—doth—
543 I fear a Man of frugal Speech— I fear a Silent Man— Haranguer—I can overtake— Or Babbler—entertain—
914 I cannot be ashamed Because I cannot see The love you offer— Magnitude
122 A something in a summer’s Day As slow her flambeaux burn away Which solemnizes me. A something in a summer’s noon—
755 No Bobolink—reverse His Singing When the only Tree Ever He minded occupying By the Farmer be—
My River runs to thee’— Blue Sea! Wilt welcome me? My River wait reply’— Oh Sea’—look graciously’— I’ll fetch thee Brooks
173 A fuzzy fellow, without feet, Yet doth exceeding run! Of velvet, is his Countenance, And his Complexion, dun!
974 The Soul’s distinct connection With immortality Is best disclosed by Danger Or quick Calamity—
470 I am alive—I guess— The Branches on my Hand Are full of Morning Glory— And at my finger’s end—
A darting fear—a pomp—a tear— A waking on a morn To find that what one waked for, Inhales the different dawn.
715 The World—feels Dusty When We stop to Die— We want the Dew—then— Honors—taste dry—
Abraham to kill him Was distinctly told’— Isaac was an Urchin’— Abraham was old’— Not a hesitation’—
243 I’ve known a Heaven, like a Tent— To wrap its shining Yards— Pluck up its stakes, and disappear… Without the sound of Boards