#AmericanWriters
XLIV THE show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to me My neighbor be.
I see thee better—in the Dark— I do not need a Light— The Love of Thee—a Prism be— Excelling Violet— I see thee better for the Years
A drop fell on the apple tree Another on the roof; A half a dozen kissed the eaves, And made the gables laugh. A few went out to help the brook,
Nature rarer uses Yellow Than another Hue. Saves she all of that for Sunsets Prodigal of Blue Spending Scarlet, like a Woman
No rack can torture me, My soul’s at liberty Behind this mortal bone There knits a bolder one You cannot prick with saw,
483 A Solemn thing within the Soul To feel itself get ripe— And golden hang—while farther up— The Maker’s Ladders stop—
534 We see—Comparatively— The Thing so towering high We could not grasp its segment Unaided—Yesterday—
Between My Country—and the Other… There is a Sea— But Flowers—negotiate between us— As Ministry.
836 Truth — is as old as God — His Twin identity And will endure as long as He A Co-Eternity —
164 Mama never forgets her birds, Though in another tree— She looks down just as often And just as tenderly
239 “Heaven”—is what I cannot reach! The Apple on the Tree— Provided it do hopeless—hang— That—"He aven" is—to Me!
687 I’ll send the feather from my Hat… Who knows—but at the sight of that My Sovereign will relent? As trinket—worn by faded Child—
617 Don’t put up my Thread and Needle… I’ll begin to Sew When the Birds begin to whistle— Better Stitches—so—
Presentiment is that long shadow o… Indicative that suns go down; The notice to the startled grass That darkness is about to pass.
734 If He were living—dare I ask— And how if He be dead— And so around the Words I went— Of meeting them—afraid—