#AmericanWriters
486 I was the slightest in the House— I took the smallest Room— At night, my little Lamp, and Boo… And one Geranium—
5 I have a Bird in spring Which for myself doth sing— The spring decoys. And as the summer nears—
Glory is that bright tragic thing That for an instant Means Dominion - Warms some poor name That never felt the Sun,
467 We do not play on Graves— Because there isn’t Room— Besides—it isn’t even—it slants And People come—
Air has no Residence, no Neighbor… No Ear, no Door, No Apprehension of Another Oh, Happy Air! Ethereal Guest at e’en an Outcast…
281 ’Tis so appalling—it exhilarates— So over Horror, it half Captivate… The Soul stares after it, secure— A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more…
The dying need but little, dear,— A glass of water’s all, A flower’s unobtrusive face To punctuate the wall, A fan, perhaps, a friend’s regret,
713 Fame of Myself, to justify, All other Plaudit be Superfluous—An Incense Beyond Necessity—
404 How many Flowers fail in Wood— Or perish from the Hill— Without the privilege to know That they are Beautiful—
XLIV THE show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to me My neighbor be.
408 Unit, like Death, for Whom? True, like the Tomb, Who tells no secret Told to Him—
96 Sexton! My Master’s sleeping here… Pray lead me to his bed! I came to build the Bird’s nest, And sow the Early seed—
755 No Bobolink—reverse His Singing When the only Tree Ever He minded occupying By the Farmer be—
The only ghost I ever saw Was dressed in mechlin,—so; He wore no sandal on his foot, And stepped like flakes of snow. His gait was soundless, like the b…
681 Soil of Flint, if steady tilled— Will refund by Hand— Seed of Palm, by Libyan Sun Fructified in Sand—
