#AmericanWriters
Not with a club, the Heart is bro… Nor with a stone; A whip, so small you could not see… I’ve known To lash the magic creature
16 I would distil a cup, And bear to all my friends, Drinking to her no more astir, By beck, or burn, or moor!
885 Our little Kinsmen’—after Rain In plenty may be seen, A Pink and Pulpy multitude The tepid Ground upon.
It dropped so low—in my Regard— I heard it hit the Ground— And go to pieces on the Stones At bottom of my Mind— Yet blamed the Fate that flung it…
XXII I had no time to hate, because The grave would hinder me, And life was not so ample I Could finish enmity.
925 Struck, was I, not yet by Lightni… Lightning—lets away Power to perceive His Process With Vitality.
LXXXV A LIGHT exists in spring Not present on the year At any other period. When March is scarcely here
The show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to me My neighbor be. Fair play—
A Sickness of this World it most… When Best Men die. A Wishfulness their far Condition To occupy. A Chief indifference, as Foreign
486 I was the slightest in the House— I took the smallest Room— At night, my little Lamp, and Boo… And one Geranium—
A darting fear—a pomp—a tear— A waking on a morn To find that what one waked for, Inhales the different dawn.
848 Just as He spoke it from his Hand… This Edifice remain— A Turret more, a Turret less Dishonor his Design—
753 My Soul—accused me—And I quailed… As Tongue of Diamond had reviled All else accused me—and I smiled— My Soul—that Morning—was My frie…
713 Fame of Myself, to justify, All other Plaudit be Superfluous—An Incense Beyond Necessity—
58 Delayed till she had ceased to kno… Delayed till in its vest of snow Her loving bosom lay— An hour behind the fleeting breath…