#AmericanWriters
784 Bereaved of all, I went abroad— No less bereaved was I Upon a New Peninsula— The Grave preceded me—
207 Tho’ I get home how late’—how lat… So I get home - 'twill compensate… Better will be the Ecstasy That they have done expecting me’—
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 –
760 Most she touched me by her mutenes… Most she won me by the way She presented her small figure— Plea itself—for Charity—
55 By Chivalries as tiny, A Blossom, or a Book, The seeds of smiles are planted— Which blossom in the dark.
If ever the lid gets off my head And lets the brain away The fellow will go where he belong… Without a hint from me, And the world– if the world be lo…
A great Hope fell You heard no noise The Ruin was within Oh cunning wreck that told no tale And let no Witness in
500 Within my Garden, rides a Bird Upon a single Wheel— Whose spokes a dizzy Music make As ’twere a travelling Mill—
698 Life—is what we make of it— Death—we do not know— Christ’s acquaintance with Him Justify Him—though—
430 It would never be Common — more —… Difference — had begun — Many a bitterness — had been — But that old sort — was done —
Epigram THIS is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,— The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty.
A narrow fellow in the grass Occasionally rides; You may have met him,—did you not, His notice sudden is. The grass divides as with a comb,
622 To know just how He suffered—woul… To know if any Human eyes were ne… To whom He could entrust His wave… Until it settle broad—on Paradise…
By homely gift and hindered Words The human heart is told Of Nothing - ‘Nothing’ is the force That renovates the World -
470 I am alive—I guess— The Branches on my Hand Are full of Morning Glory— And at my finger’s end—