#AmericanWriters
161 A feather from the Whippoorwill That everlasting—sings! Whose galleries—are Sunrise— Whose Opera—the Springs—
649 Her Sweet turn to leave the Homes… Came the Darker Way— Carriages—Be Sure—and Guests—too… But for Holiday
A slash of Blue— A sweep of Gray— Some scarlet patches on the way, Compose an Evening Sky— A little purple—slipped between—
A darting fear—a pomp—a tear— A waking on a morn To find that what one waked for, Inhales the different dawn.
877 Each Scar I’ll keep for Him Instead I’ll say of Gem In His long Absence worn A Costlier one
66 So from the mould Scarlet and Gold Many a Bulb will rise— Hidden away, cunningly, From saga…
912 Peace is a fiction of our Faith— The Bells a Winter Night Bearing the Neighbor out of Sound That never did alight.
237 I think just how my shape will ris… When I shall be “forgiven”— Till Hair—and Eyes—and timid Hea… Are out of sight—in Heaven—
27 Morns like these—we parted— Noons like these—she rose— Fluttering first—then firmer To her fair repose.
XXVIII A CHARM invests a face Imperfectly beheld,— The lady dare not lift her veil For fear it be dispelled.
770 I lived on Dread— To Those who know The Stimulus there is In Danger—Other impetus
149 She went as quiet as the Dew From an Accustomed flower. Not like the Dew, did she return At the Accustomed hour!
667 Bloom upon the Mountain—stated— Blameless of a Name— Efflorescence of a Sunset— Reproduced—the same—
III SOUL, wilt thou toss again? By just such a hazard Hundreds have lost, indeed, But tens have won an all.
XLIV THE show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to me My neighbor be.
