#Americans #Women #XIXCentury
907 Till Death’—is narrow Loving’— The scantest Heart extant Will hold you till your privilege Of Finiteness’—be spent’—
84 Her breast is fit for pearls, But I was not a “Diver”— Her brow is fit for thrones But I have not a crest.
180 As if some little Arctic flower Upon the polar hem— Went wandering down the Latitudes Until it puzzled came
God permit industrious angels Afternoons to play. I met one,—forgot my school-mates, All, for him, straightaway. God calls home the angels promptly
To die—takes just a little while— They say it doesn’t hurt— It’s only fainter—by degrees— And then—it’s out of sight— A darker Ribbon—for a Day—
Glory is that bright tragic thing That for an instant Means Dominion - Warms some poor name That never felt the Sun,
Are Friends Delight or Pain? Could Bounty but remain Riches were good - But if they only stay Ampler to fly away
526 To hear an Oriole sing May be a common thing— Or only a divine. It is not of the Bird
463 I live with Him — I see His face… I go no more away For Visitor — or Sundown — Death's single privacy
The thought beneath so slight a fi… Is more distincly seen,— As laces just reveal the surge, Or mists the Apennine.
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry....
558 But little Carmine hath her face— Of Emerald scant—her Gown— Her Beauty—is the love she doth— Itself—exhibit—Mine&md ash;
Tie the strings to my life, my Lo… Then I am ready to go! Just a look at the horses— Rapid! That will do! Put me in on the firmest side,
119 Talk with prudence to a Beggar Of “Potose,” and the mines! Reverently, to the Hungry Of your viands, and your wines!
617 Don’t put up my Thread and Needle… I’ll begin to Sew When the Birds begin to whistle— Better Stitches—so—
