#AmericanWriters
25 She slept beneath a tree— Remembered but by me. I touched her Cradle mute— She recognized the foot—
311 It sifts from Leaden Sieves— It powders all the Wood. It fills with Alabaster Wool The Wrinkles of the Road—
947 Of Tolling Bell I ask the cause? “A Soul has gone to Heaven” I’m answered in a lonesome tone— Is Heaven then a Prison?
208 The Rose did caper on her cheek— Her Bodice rose and fell— Her pretty speech—like drunken men… Did stagger pitiful—
Nature the gentlest mother is, Impatient of no child, The feeblest of the waywardest. Her admonition mild In forest and the hill
549 That I did always love I bring thee Proof That till I loved I never lived—Enough—
912 Peace is a fiction of our Faith— The Bells a Winter Night Bearing the Neighbor out of Sound That never did alight.
116 I had some things that I called m… And God, that he called his, Till, recently a rival Claim Disturbed these amities.
88 As by the dead we love to sit, Become so wondrous dear— As for the lost we grapple Tho’ all the rest are here—
Whose Pink career may have a clos… Portentous as our own, who knows? To imitate these Neighbors fleet In awe and innocence, were meet.
Wild Nights! Wild Nights! Were I with thee, Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile the winds
LXV GOOD night! which put the candle… A jealous zephyr, not a doubt. Ah! friend, you little knew How long at that celestial wick
312 Her—“last Poems”— Poets—ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled other,
534 We see—Comparatively— The Thing so towering high We could not grasp its segment Unaided—Yesterday—
I dwell in Possibility – A fairer House than Prose – More numerous of Windows – Superior – for Doors – Of Chambers as the Cedars –