#Americans #Women #XIXCentury
A fuzzy fellow, without feet, Yet doth exceeding run! Of velvet, is his Countenance, And his Complexion, dun! Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass…
252 I can wade Grief— Whole Pools of it— I’m used to that— But the least push of Joy
13 Sleep is supposed to be By souls of sanity The shutting of the eye. Sleep is the station grand
LXVI WHEN I hoped I feared, Since I hoped I dared; Everywhere alone As a church remain;
The wind tapped like a tired man, And like a host, ‘Come in,’ I boldly answered; entered then My residence within A rapid, footless guest,
The going from a world we know To one a wonder still Is like the child’s adversity Whose vista is a hill, Behind the hill is sorcery
246 Forever at His side to walk— The smaller of the two! Brain of His Brain— Blood of His Blood—
707 The Grace—Myself—might not obtain… Confer upon My flower— Refracted but a Countenance— For I—inhabit Her—
264 A Weight with Needles on the poun… To push, and pierce, besides— That if the Flesh resist the Heft… The puncture—coolly tries—
742 Four Trees—upon a solitary Acre— Without Design Or Order, or Apparent Action— Maintain—
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—
404 How many Flowers fail in Wood— Or perish from the Hill— Without the privilege to know That they are Beautiful—
859 A Doubt if it be Us Assists the staggering Mind In an extremer Anguish Until it footing find.
I dreaded that first robin so, But he is mastered now, And I’m accustomed to him grown,— He hurts a little, though. I thought if I could only live
982 No Other can reduce Our mortal Consequence Like the remembering it be nought A Period from hence
