#AmericanWriters
Nature, the gentlest mother, Impatient of no child, The feeblest or the waywardest, Her admonition mild In forest and the hill
XLIV THE show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to me My neighbor be.
A Wind that rose Though not a Leaf In any Forest stirred But with itself did cold engage Beyond the Realm of Bird -
715 The World—feels Dusty When We stop to Die— We want the Dew—then— Honors—taste dry—
152 The Sun kept stooping—stooping—lo… The Hills to meet him rose! On his side, what Transaction! On their side, what Repose!
Your Riches—taught me—Poverty. Myself—a Millionaire In little Wealths, as Girls could… Till broad as Buenos Ayre— You drifted your Dominions—
226 Should you but fail at—Sea— In sight of me— Or doomed lie— Next Sun—to die—
723 It tossed—and tossed— A little Brig I knew—o’ertook by… It spun—and spun— And groped delirious, for Morn—
814 One Day is there of the Series Termed Thanksgiving Day. Celebrated part at Table Part in Memory.
A thought went up my mind to-day That I have had before, But did not finish,—some way back, I could not fix the year, Nor where it went, nor why it came
He fumbles at your spirit As players at the keys Before they drop full music on; He stuns you by degrees, Prepares your brittle substance
191 The Skies can’t keep their secret… They tell it to the Hills— The Hills just tell the Orchards— And they—the Daffodils!
740 You taught me Waiting with Myself… Appointment strictly kept’— You taught me fortitude of Fate’— This’—also’—I have learnt’—
883 The Poets light but Lamps— Themselves—go out— The Wicks they stimulate— If vital Light
Death is like the insect Menacing the tree, Competent to kill it, But decoyed may be. Bait it with the balsam,