#AmericanWriters
Tell all the truth but tell it sla… Success in circuit lies, Too bright for our infirm delight The truth’s superb surprise; As lightning to the children eased
81 We should not mind so small a flow… Except it quiet bring Our little garden that we lost Back to the Lawn again.
31 Summer for thee, grant I may be When Summer days are flown! Thy music still, when Whipporwill And Oriole—are done!
751 My Worthiness is all my Doubt— His Merit—all my fear— Contrasting which, my quality Do lowlier—appear—
789 On a Columnar Self— How ample to rely In Tumult—or Extremity— How good the Certainty
890 From Us She wandered now a Year, Her tarrying, unknown, If Wilderness prevent her feet Or that Ethereal Zone
To make a prairie it takes a clove… One clover, and a bee. And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few.
LX The grass so little has to do,— A sphere of simple green, With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain,
343 My Reward for Being, was This. My premium—My Bliss— An Admiralty, less— A Sceptre—penniless—
486 I was the slightest in the House— I took the smallest Room— At night, my little Lamp, and Boo… And one Geranium—
663 Again—his voice is at the door— I feel the old Degree— I hear him ask the servant For such an one—as me—
How Human Nature dotes On what it can’t detect. The moment that a Plot is plumbed Prospective is extinct - Prospective is the friend
877 Each Scar I’ll keep for Him Instead I’ll say of Gem In His long Absence worn A Costlier one
672 The Future—never spoke— Nor will He—like the Dumb— Reveal by sign—a syllable Of His Profound To Come—
685 Not “Revelation”—'tis—that waits, But our unfurnished eyes—
