#AmericanWriters
176 I’m the little “Heart’s Ease”! I don’t care for pouting skies! If the Butterfly delay Can I, therefore, stay away?
458 Like eyes that looked on Wastes— Incredulous of Ought But Blank—and steady Wilderness— Diversified by Night—
344 ’Twas the old—road—through pain— That unfrequented—One— With many a turn—and thorn— That stops—at Heaven—
1763 Fame is a bee. It has a song— It has a sting— Ah, too, it has a wing.
668 “Nature” is what we see— The Hill—the Afternoon— Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee— Nay—Nature is Heaven—
Come slowly, Eden Lips unused to thee. Bashful, sip thy jasmines, As the fainting bee,
476 I meant to have but modest needs— Such as Content—and Heaven— Within my income—these could lie And Life and I—keep even—
220 Could I—then—shut the door— Lest my beseeching face—at last— Rejected—be—of Her?
346 Not probable—The barest Chance— A smile too few—a word too much And far from Heaven as the Rest— The Soul so close on Paradise—
Pink, small, and punctual, Aromatic, low, Covert in April, Candid in May, Dear to the moss,
Remembrance has a Rear and Front… ’Tis something like a House - It has a Garret also For Refuse and the Mouse. Besides the deepest Cellar
XXVI THE brain within its groove Runs evenly and true; But let a splinter swerve, ’T were easier for you
784 Bereaved of all, I went abroad— No less bereaved was I Upon a New Peninsula— The Grave preceded me—
Death is like the insect Menacing the tree, Competent to kill it, But decoyed may be. Bait it with the balsam,
982 No Other can reduce Our mortal Consequence Like the remembering it be nought A Period from hence