#AmericanWriters
The Butterfly in honored Dust Assuredly will lie But none will pass the Catacomb So chastened as the Fly -
482 We Cover Thee—Sweet Face— Not that We tire of Thee— But that Thyself fatigue of Us— Remember—as Thou go—
599 There is a pain—so utter— It swallows substance up— Then covers the Abyss with Trance… So Memory can step
612 It would have starved a Gnat— To live so small as I— And yet I was a living Child— With Food’s necessity
A slash of Blue— A sweep of Gray— Some scarlet patches on the way, Compose an Evening Sky— A little purple—slipped between—
653 Of Being is a Bird The likest to the Down An Easy Breeze do put afloat The General Heavens—upon—
133 As Children bid the Guest “Good… And then reluctant turn— My flowers raise their pretty lips… Then put their nightgowns on.
172 ’Tis so much joy! ’Tis so much jo… If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I, Have ventured all upon a throw!
338 I know that He exists. Somewhere—in Silence— He has hid his rare life From our gross eyes.
818 I could not drink it, Sweet, Till You had tasted first, Though cooler than the Water was The Thoughtfullness of Thirst.
113 Our share of night to bear— Our share of morning— Our blank in bliss to fill Our blank in scorning—
693 Shells from the Coast mistaking— I cherished them for All— Happening in After Ages To entertain a Pearl—
58 Delayed till she had ceased to kno… Delayed till in its vest of snow Her loving bosom lay— An hour behind the fleeting breath…
75 She died at play, Gambolled away Her lease of spotted hours, Then sank as gaily as a Turn
671 She dwelleth in the Ground— Where Daffodils—abide— Her Maker—Her Metropolis— The Universe—Her Maid—