#Americans #Women #XIXCentury
883 The Poets light but Lamps— Themselves—go out— The Wicks they stimulate— If vital Light
193 I shall know why—when Time is ove… And I have ceased to wonder why— Christ will explain each separate… In the fair schoolroom of the sky—
592 What care the Dead, for Chanticle… What care the Dead for Day? ’Tis late your Sunrise vex their… And Purple Ribaldry—of Morning
LVI Faith is a fine invention For gentlemen who see; But microscopes are prudent In an emergency!
111 The Bee is not afraid of me. I know the Butterfly. The pretty people in the Woods Receive me cordially—
After a hundred years Nobody knows the place,— Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace. Weeds triumphant ranged,
506 He touched me, so I live to know That such a day, permitted so, I groped upon his breast— It was a boundless place to me
161 A feather from the Whippoorwill That everlasting—sings! Whose galleries—are Sunrise— Whose Opera—the Springs—
286 That after Horror — that ’twas us… That passed the mouldering Pier — Just as the Granite Crumb let go… Our Savior, by a Hair —
The Savior must have been A docile Gentleman— To come so far so cold a Day For little Fellowmen— The Road to Bethlehem
LXXXIX A WORD is dead When it is said, Some say. I say it just
The brain within its groove Runs evenly and true; But let a splinter swerve, ‘T were easier for you To put the water back
Air has no Residence, no Neighbor… No Ear, no Door, No Apprehension of Another Oh, Happy Air! Ethereal Guest at e’en an Outcast…
999 Superfluous were the Sun When Excellence be dead He were superfluous every Day For every Day be said
XIII THE soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more.
