#Americans #Women #XIXCentury
153 Dust is the only Secret— Death, the only One You cannot find out all about In his “native town.”
240 Ah, Moon—and Star! You are very far— But were no one Farther than you—
XII I ASKED no other thing, No other was denied. I offered Being for it; The mighty merchant smiled.
The cricket sang, And set the sun, And workmen finished, one by one, Their seam the day upon. The low grass loaded with the dew,
614 In falling Timbers buried— There breathed a Man— Outside—the spades—were plying— The Lungs—within—
483 A Solemn thing within the Soul To feel itself get ripe— And golden hang—while farther up— The Maker’s Ladders stop—
993 We miss Her, not because We see— The Absence of an Eye— Except its Mind accompany Abridge Society
89 Some things that fly there be— Birds—Hours—the Bumblebee— Of these no Elegy. Some things that stay there be—
101 Will there really be a “Morning”? Is there such a thing as “Day”? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they?
260 Read—Sweet—how others—strove— Till we—are stouter— What they—renounced— Till we—are less afraid—
853 When One has given up One’s life The parting with the rest Feels easy, as when Day lets go Entirely the West
LXI EACH life converges to some cent… Expressed or still; Exists in every human nature A goal,
’Twas comfort in her Dying Room To hear the living Clock— A short relief to have the wind Walk boldly up and knock— Diversion from the Dying Theme
329 So glad we are—a Stranger’d deem ’Twas sorry, that we were— For where the Holiday should be There publishes a Tear—
’T IS so much joy! ’T is so much… If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I Have ventured all upon a throw; Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so
