#AmericanWriters
XXXIV NATURE is what we see, The Hill, the Afternoon— Squirrel, Eclipse, the Bumble-bee… Nay—Nature is Heaven.
992 The Dust behind I strove to join Unto the Disk before— But Sequence ravelled out of Soun… Like Balls upon a Floor—
651 So much Summer Me for showing Illegitimate— Would a Smile’s minute bestowing
529 I’m sorry for the Dead—Today— It’s such congenial times Old Neighbors have at fences— It’s time o’ year for Hay.
Death leaves Us homesick, who beh… Except that it is gone Are ignorant of its Concern As if it were not born. Through all their former Places,…
205 I should not dare to leave my frie… Because—because if he should die While I was gone—and I—too late— Should reach the Heart that wante…
Our journey had advanced; Our feet were almost come To that odd fork in Being’s road, Eternity by term. Our pace took sudden awe,
808 So set its Sun in Thee What Day be dark to me— What Distance—far— So I the Ships may see
113 Our share of night to bear— Our share of morning— Our blank in bliss to fill Our blank in scorning—
844 Spring is the Period Express from God. Among the other seasons Himself abide,
XXXVII For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ecstasy.
154 Except to Heaven, she is nought. Except for Angels—lone. Except to some wide-wandering Bee A flower superfluous blown.
204 A slash of Blue— A sweep of Gray— Some scarlet patches on the way, Compose an Evening Sky—
Success is counted sweetest By those who ne’er succeed. To comprehend a nectar Requires sorest need. Not one of all the purple Host
885 Our little Kinsmen’—after Rain In plenty may be seen, A Pink and Pulpy multitude The tepid Ground upon.