#AmericanWriters
A light exists in spring Not present on the year At any other period. When March is scarcely here A color stands abroad
309 For largest Woman’s Hearth I kne… ’Tis little I can do— And yet the largest Woman’s Heart Could hold an Arrow—too—
A little Dog that wags his tail And knows no other joy Of such a little Dog am I Reminded by a Boy Who gambols all the living Day
562 Conjecturing a Climate Of unsuspended Suns— Adds poignancy to Winter— The Shivering Fancy turns
451 The Outer—from the Inner Derives its Magnitude— 'Tis Duke, or Dwarf, according As is the Central Mood—
808 So set its Sun in Thee What Day be dark to me— What Distance—far— So I the Ships may see
LX A SHADY friend for torrid days Is easier to find Than one of higher temperature For frigid hour of mind.
Dare you see a Soul at the White… Then crouch within the door— Red—is the Fire’s common tint— But when the vivid Ore Has vanquished Flame’s conditions…
Not “Revelation”—'tis—that waits, But our unfurnished eyes—
281 ’Tis so appalling—it exhilarates— So over Horror, it half Captivate… The Soul stares after it, secure— A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more…
81 We should not mind so small a flow… Except it quiet bring Our little garden that we lost Back to the Lawn again.
614 In falling Timbers buried— There breathed a Man— Outside—the spades—were plying— The Lungs—within—
703 Out of sight? What of that? See the Bird—reach it! Curve by Curve—Sweep by Sweep— Round the Steep Air—
927 Absent Place—an April Day— Daffodils a-blow Homesick curiosity To the Souls that snow—
Nature rarer uses Yellow Than another Hue. Saves she all of that for Sunsets Prodigal of Blue Spending Scarlet, like a Woman