#AmericanWriters
The Work of Her that went, The Toil of Fellows done - In Ovens green our Mother bakes, By Fires of the Sun.
166 I met a King this afternoon! He had not on a Crown indeed, A little Palmleaf Hat was all, And he was barefoot, I’m afraid!
Water makes many Beds For those averse to sleep - Its awful chamber open stands - Its Curtains blandly sweep - Abhorrent is the Rest
653 Of Being is a Bird The likest to the Down An Easy Breeze do put afloat The General Heavens—upon—
551 There is a Shame of Nobleness— Confronting Sudden Pelf— A finer Shame of Ecstasy— Convicted of Itself—
150 She died—this was the way she died… And when her breath was done Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun—
526 To hear an Oriole sing May be a common thing— Or only a divine. It is not of the Bird
298 Alone, I cannot be— For Hosts—do visit me— Recordless Company— Who baffle Key—
Me! Come! My dazzled face In such a shining place! Me! Hear! My foreign ear The sounds of welcome near! The saints shall meet
235 The Court is far away— No Umpire—have I— My Sovereign is offended— To gain his grace—I’d die!
978 It bloomed and dropt, a Single No… The Flower—distinct and Red— I, passing, thought another Noon Another in its stead
983 Ideals are the Fairly Oil With which we help the Wheel But when the Vital Axle turns The Eye rejects the Oil.
78 A poor—torn heart—a tattered heart… That sat it down to rest— Nor noticed that the Ebbing Day Flowed silver to the West—
It was not death, for I stood up, And all the dead lie down; It was not night, for all the bell… Put out their tongues, for noon. It was not frost, for on my flesh
Witchcraft has not a Pedigree ’Tis early as our Breath And mourners meet it going out The moment of our death—