#Americans #Women #XIXCentury
252 I can wade Grief— Whole Pools of it— I’m used to that— But the least push of Joy
315 He fumbles at your Soul As Players at the Keys Before they drop full Music on— He stuns you by degrees—
165 A Wounded Deer—leaps highest— I’ve heard the Hunter tell— ’Tis but the Ecstasy of death— And then the Brake is still!
655 Without this—there is nought— All other Riches be As is the Twitter of a Bird— Heard opposite the Sea—
541 Some such Butterfly be seen On Brazilian Pampas— Just at noon—no later—Sweet— Then—the License closes—
A Word dropped careless on a Page May stimulate an eye When folded in perpetual seam The Wrinkled Maker lie Infection in the sentence breeds
562 Conjecturing a Climate Of unsuspended Suns— Adds poignancy to Winter— The Shivering Fancy turns
350 They leave us with the Infinite. But He—is not a man— His fingers are the size of fists— His fists, the size of men—
Because I could not stop for Deat… He kindly stopped for me– The Carriage held but just Oursel… And Immortality. We slowly drove– He knew no haste
844 Spring is the Period Express from God. Among the other seasons Himself abide,
1540 As imperceptibly as Grief The Summer lapsed away— Too imperceptible at last To seem like Perfidy—
965 Denial—is the only fact Perceived by the Denied— Whose Will—a numb significance— The Day the Heaven died—
124 In lands I never saw—they say Immortal Alps look down— Whose Bonnets touch the firmament… Whose Sandals touch the town—
366 Although I put away his life— An Ornament too grand For Forehead low as mine, to wear… This might have been the Hand
770 I lived on Dread— To Those who know The Stimulus there is In Danger—Other impetus
