#AmericanWriters
668 “Nature” is what we see— The Hill—the Afternoon— Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee— Nay—Nature is Heaven—
XV I know some lonely houses off the… A robber ’d like the look of,— Wooden barred, And windows hanging low,
Pink, small, and punctual, Aromatic, low, Covert in April, Candid in May, Dear to the moss,
475 Doom is the House without the Doo… ’Tis entered from the Sun— And then the Ladder’s thrown away… Because Escape—is done—
When a Lover is a Beggar Abject is his Knee - When a Lover is an Owner Different is he - What he begged is then the Beggar…
454 It was given to me by the Gods— When I was a little Girl— They given us Presents most—you k… When we are new—and small.
205 I should not dare to leave my frie… Because—because if he should die While I was gone—and I—too late— Should reach the Heart that wante…
975 The Mountain sat upon the Plain In his tremendous Chair— His observation omnifold, His inquest, everywhere—
736 Have any like Myself Investigating March, New Houses on the Hill descried— And possibly a Church—
506 He touched me, so I live to know That such a day, permitted so, I groped upon his breast— It was a boundless place to me
985 The Missing All’—prevented Me From missing minor Things. If nothing larger than a World’s Departure from a Hinge’—
514 Her smile was shaped like other sm… The Dimples ran along— And still it hurt you, as some Bi… Did hoist herself, to sing,
157 Musicians wrestle everywhere— All day—among the crowded air I hear the silver strife— And—walking—long before the morn—
I noticed People disappeared When but a little child - Supposed they visited remote Or settled Regions wild - But did because they died
99 New feet within my garden go— New fingers stir the sod— A Troubadour upon the Elm Betrays the solitude.