#AmericanWriters
The butterfly obtains But little sympathy Though favorably mentioned In Entomology - Because he travels freely
952 A Man may make a Remark— In itself—a quiet thing That may furnish the Fuse unto a… In dormant nature—lain—
The pedigree of honey Does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him Is aristocracy.
Much Madness is divinest Sense - To a discerning Eye - Much Sense– the starkest Madness… ’Tis the Majority In this, as All, prevail -
244 It is easy to work when the soul i… But when the soul is in pain— The hearing him put his playthings… Makes work difficult—then—
An Antiquated Tree Is cherished of the Crow Because that Junior Foliage is di… To venerable Birds Whose Corporation Coat
A little road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee, Or cart of butterfly. If town it have, beyond itself,
577 If I may have it, when it’s dead, I’ll be contented—so— If just as soon as Breath is out It shall belong to me—
The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,— The sweeping up the heart,
16 I would distil a cup, And bear to all my friends, Drinking to her no more astir, By beck, or burn, or moor!
Silence is all we dread. There’s Ransom in a Voice - But Silence is Infinity. Himself have not a face.
620 It makes no difference abroad— The Seasons—fit—the same— The Mornings blossom into Noons— And split their Pods of Flame—
XXXI I FOUND the phrase to every tho… I ever had, but one; And that defies me,—as a hand Did try to chalk the sun
XLI THE soul unto itself Is an imperial friend,— Or the most agonizing spy An enemy could send.
They shut me up in Prose— As when a little Girl They put me in the Closet— Because they liked me “still”— Still! Could themself have peeped…