#Americans #Women #XIXCentury
The Notice that is called the Spr… Is but a month from here - Put up my Heart thy Hoary work And take a Rosy Chair. Not any House the Flowers keep -
468 The Manner of its Death When Certain it must die— ’Tis deemed a privilege to choose— ’Twas Major Andre’s Way—
962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—
The Butterfly upon the Sky, That doesn’t know its Name And hasn’t any tax to pay And hasn’t any Home Is just as high as you and I,
552 An ignorance a Sunset Confer upon the Eye— Of Territory—Color— Circumference&mda sh;Decay—
378 I saw no Way—The Heavens were st… I felt the Columns close— The Earth reversed her Hemisphere… I touched the Universe—
930 There is a June when Corn is cut And Roses in the Seed— A Summer briefer than the first But tenderer indeed
158 Dying! Dying in the night! Won’t somebody bring the light So I can see which way to go Into the everlasting snow?
207 Tho’ I get home how late—how late… So I get home—’twill compensate— Better will be the Ecstasy That they have done expecting me—
283 A Mien to move a Queen— Half Child—Half Heroine— An Orleans in the Eye That puts its manner by
783 The Birds begun at Four o’clock— Their period for Dawn— A Music numerous as space— But neighboring as Noon—
773 Deprived of other Banquet, I entertained Myself— At first—a scant nutrition— An insufficient Loaf—
XL THE thought beneath so slight a f… Is more distinctly seen,— As laces just reveal the surge, Or mists the Apennine.
14 One Sister have I in our house, And one, a hedge away. There’s only one recorded, But both belong to me.
23 I had a guinea golden— I lost it in the sand— And tho’ the sum was simple And pounds were in the land—
