#AmericanWriters
So proud she was to die It made us all ashamed That what we cherished, so unknown To her desire seemed. So satisfied to go
There’s a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons— That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes— Heavenly Hurt, it gives us—
I have no life but this, To lead it here; Nor any death, but lest Dispelled from there; Nor tie to earths to come,
1763 Fame is a bee. It has a song— It has a sting— Ah, too, it has a wing.
High from the earth I heard a bir… He trod upon the trees As he esteemed them trifles, And then he spied a breeze, And situated softly
517 He parts Himself’—like Leaves’— And then’—He closes up’— Then stands upon the Bonnet Of Any Buttercup’—
A lane of Yellow led the eye Unto a Purple Wood Whose soft inhabitants to be Surpasses solitude If Bird the silence contradict
848 Just as He spoke it from his Hand… This Edifice remain— A Turret more, a Turret less Dishonor his Design—
191 The Skies can’t keep their secret… They tell it to the Hills— The Hills just tell the Orchards— And they—the Daffodils!
930 There is a June when Corn is cut And Roses in the Seed— A Summer briefer than the first But tenderer indeed
904 Had I not This, or This, I said, Appealing to Myself, In moment of prosperity— Inadequate—were Life—
407 If What we could—were what we wou… Criterion—be small— It is the Ultimate of Talk— The Impotence to Tell—
652 A Prison gets to be a friend— Between its Ponderous face And Ours—a Kinsmanship express— And in its narrow Eyes—
917 Love—is anterior to Life— Posterior—to Death— Initial of Creation, and The Exponent of Earth—
Your Riches—taught me—Poverty. Myself—a Millionaire In little Wealths, as Girls could… Till broad as Buenos Ayre— You drifted your Dominions—