#AmericanWriters
LVIII PORTRAITS are to daily faces As an evening west To a fine, pedantic sunshine In a satin vest.
404 How many Flowers fail in Wood— Or perish from the Hill— Without the privilege to know That they are Beautiful—
187 How many times these low feet stag… Only the soldered mouth can tell— Try—can you stir the awful rivet— Try—can you lift the hasps of stee…
I hide myself within my flower, That wearing on your breast, You, unsuspecting, wear me too - And angels know the rest. I hide myself within my flower,
189 It’s such a little thing to weep— So short a thing to sigh— And yet—by Trades—the size of the… We men and women die!
“Why do I love” You, Sir? Because’— The Wind does not require the Gra… To answer’—Wherefore when He pass She cannot keep Her place.
Nature the gentlest mother is, Impatient of no child, The feeblest of the waywardest. Her admonition mild In forest and the hill
159 A little bread—a crust—a crumb— A little trust—a demijohn— Can keep the soul alive— Not portly, mind! but breathing—wa…
62 “Sown in dishonor”! Ah! Indeed! May this “dishonor” be? If I were half so fine myself
573 The Test of Love—is Death— Our Lord—"so loved"—it saith— What Largest Lover—hath Another—doth—
480 “Why do I love” You, Sir? Because— The Wind does not require the Gra… To answer—Wherefore when He pass
612 It would have starved a Gnat— To live so small as I— And yet I was a living Child— With Food’s necessity
Years I had been from home, And now, before the door I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before Stare vacant into mine
For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ectasty. For each beloved hour
To see her is a Picture— To hear her is a Tune— To know her an Intemperance As innocent as June— To know her not—Affliction—
