#AmericanWriters
781 To wait an Hour—is long— If Love be just beyond— To wait Eternity—is short— If Love reward the end—
534 We see—Comparatively— The Thing so towering high We could not grasp its segment Unaided—Yesterday—
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?
Come slowly, Eden Lips unused to thee. Bashful, sip thy jasmines, As the fainting bee,
526 To hear an Oriole sing May be a common thing— Or only a divine. It is not of the Bird
448 This was a Poet—It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings— And Attar so immense
755 No Bobolink—reverse His Singing When the only Tree Ever He minded occupying By the Farmer be—
111 The Bee is not afraid of me. I know the Butterfly. The pretty people in the Woods Receive me cordially—
25 She slept beneath a tree— Remembered but by me. I touched her Cradle mute— She recognized the foot—
743 The Birds reported from the South… A News express to Me— A spicy Charge, My little Posts— But I am deaf—Today—
I hide myself within my flower, That wearing on your breast, You, unsuspecting, wear me too - And angels know the rest. I hide myself within my flower,
The day came slow, till five o’clo… Then sprang before the hills, Like hindered rubies, or the light… A sudden musket spills. The purple could not keep the east…
909 I make His Crescent fill or lack— His Nature is at Full Or Quarter—as I signify— His Tides—do I control—
331 While Asters— On the Hill— Their Everlasting fashions—set— And Covenant Gentians—Frill!
920 We can but follow to the Sun— As oft as He go down He leave Ourselves a Sphere behin… ’Tis mostly—following—