#AmericanWriters
824 [first version] The Wind begun to knead the Grass… As Women do a Dough— He flung a Hand full at the Plain…
694 The Heaven vests for Each In that small Deity It craved the grace to worship Some bashful Summer’s Day—
1100 The last Night that She lived It was a Common Night Except the Dying—this to Us Made Nature different
XVII WHEN night is almost done, And sunrise grows so near That we can touch the spaces, It ’s time to smooth the hair
A long, long sleep, a famous sleep That makes no show for dawn By strech of limb or stir of lid,— An independent one. Was ever idleness like this?
306 The Soul’s Superior instants Occur to Her—alone— When friend—and Earth’s occasion Have infinite withdrawn—
It’s like the light,— A fashionless delight It’s like the bee,— A dateless melody. It’s like the woods,
161 A feather from the Whippoorwill That everlasting—sings! Whose galleries—are Sunrise— Whose Opera—the Springs—
LXI A LITTLE road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee, Or cart of butterfly.
LXII A DROP fell on the apple tree Another on the roof; A half a dozen kissed the eaves, And made the gables laugh.
955 The Hollows round His eager Eyes Were Pages where to read Pathetic Histories—although Himself had not complained.
I cannot live with You— It would be Life— And Life is over there— Behind the Shelf The Sexton keeps the Key to—
A great Hope fell You heard no noise The Ruin was within Oh cunning wreck that told no tale And let no Witness in
Tell all the Truth but tell it sl… Success in Circuit lies Too bright for our infirm Delight The Truth’s superb surprise As Lightning to the Children ease…
689 The Zeroes—taught us—Phosphorous— We learned to like the Fire By playing Glaciers—when a Boy— And Tinder—guessed—by power