#AmericanWriters
707 The Grace—Myself—might not obtain… Confer upon My flower— Refracted but a Countenance— For I—inhabit Her—
823 Not that We did, shall be the tes… When Act and Will are done But what Our Lord infers We woul… Had We diviner been—
10 My wheel is in the dark! I cannot see a spoke Yet know its dripping feet Go round and round.
39 It did not surprise me— So I said—or thought— She will stir her pinions And the nest forgot,
115 What Inn is this Where for the night Peculiar Traveller comes? Who is the Landlord?
410 The first Day’s Night had come— And grateful that a thing So terrible—had been endured— I told my Soul to sing—
Epigram THIS is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,— The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty.
356 The Day that I was crowned Was like the other Days— Until the Coronation came— And then—'twas Otherwise—
540 I took my Power in my Hand— And went against the World— ’Twas not so much as David—had— But I—was twice as bold—
330 The Juggler’s Hat her Country is… The Mountain Gorse—the Bee’s!
MY cocoon tightens, colors tease, I 'm feeling for the air; A dim capacity for wings Degrades the dress I wear. A power of butterfly must be
886 These tested Our Horizon— Then disappeared As Birds before achieving A Latitude.
86 South Winds jostle them— Bumblebees come— Hover—hesitate— Dri nk, and are gone—
89 Some things that fly there be— Birds—Hours—the Bumblebee— Of these no Elegy. Some things that stay there be—
450 Dreams—are well—but Waking’s bett… If One wake at morn— If One wake at Midnight—better— Dreaming—of the Dawn—