#AmericanWriters
To make a prairie it takes a clove… One clover, and a bee. And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few.
726 We thirst at first—’tis Nature’s… And later—when we die— A little Water supplicate— Of fingers going by—
348 I dreaded that first Robin, so, But He is mastered, now, I’m accustomed to Him grown, He hurts a little, though—
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 fractured…
835 Nature and God—I neither knew Yet Both so well knew me They startled, like Executors Of My identity.
789 On a Columnar Self— How ample to rely In Tumult—or Extremity— How good the Certainty
821 Away from Home are some and I— An Emigrant to be In a Metropolis of Homes Is easy, possibly—
578 The Body grows without— The more convenient way— That if the Spirit—like to hide Its Temple stands, alway,
191 The Skies can’t keep their secret… They tell it to the Hills— The Hills just tell the Orchards— And they—the Daffodils!
LXVII A DEED knocks first at thought, And then it knocks at will. That is the manufacturing spot, And will at home and well.
XLIX WE outgrow love like other things And put it in the drawer, Till it an antique fashion shows Like costumes grandsires wore.
The nearest dream recedes, unreali… The heaven we chase Like the June bee Before the school-boy Invites the race;
1510 How happy is the little Stone That rambles in the Road alone, And doesn’t care about Careers And Exigencies never fears—
LXI A LITTLE road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee, Or cart of butterfly.
Rearrange a 'Wife’s’ affection! When they dislocate my Brain! Amputate my freckled Bosom! Make me bearded like a man! Blush, my spirit, in thy Fastness…