#Americans #Women #XIXCentury
286 That after Horror — that ’twas us… That passed the mouldering Pier — Just as the Granite Crumb let go… Our Savior, by a Hair —
521 Endow the Living—with the Tears— You squander on the Dead, And They were Men and Women—now, Around Your Fireside—
338 I know that He exists. Somewhere—in Silence— He has hid his rare life From our gross eyes.
727 Precious to Me—She still shall be… Though She forget the name I bear… The fashion of the Gown I wear— The very Color of My Hair—
720 No Prisoner be— Where Liberty— Himself—abide with Thee—
They shut me up in Prose— As when a little Girl They put me in the Closet— Because they liked me “still”— Still! Could themself have peeped…
264 A Weight with Needles on the poun… To push, and pierce, besides— That if the Flesh resist the Heft… The puncture—coolly tries—
The Work of Her that went, The Toil of Fellows done - In Ovens green our Mother bakes, By Fires of the Sun.
There is no frigate like a book To take us lands away, Nor any coursers like a page Of prancing poetry. This traverse may the poorest take
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
Those fair—fictitious People— The Women—plucked away From our familiar Lifetime— The Men of Ivory— Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas—
266 This—is the land—the Sunset washe… These—are the Banks of the Yellow… Where it rose—or whither it rushes… These—are the Western Mystery!
51 I often passed the village When going home from school— And wondered what they did there— And why it was so still—
453 Love—thou art high— I cannot climb thee— But, were it Two— Who know but we—
113 Our share of night to bear— Our share of morning— Our blank in bliss to fill Our blank in scorning—
