#AmericanWriters #FemaleWriters #XIXCentury
Nature rarer uses Yellow Than another Hue. Saves she all of that for Sunsets Prodigal of Blue Spending Scarlet, like a Woman
355 ’Tis Opposites—entice— Deformed Men—ponder Grace— Bright fires—the Blanketless— The Lost—Day’s face—
XXXIX I MEANT to have but modest need… Such as content, and heaven; Within my income these could lie, And life and I keep even.
468 The Manner of its Death When Certain it must die— ’Tis deemed a privilege to choose— ’Twas Major Andre’s Way—
Two butterflies went out at noon And waltzed above a stream, Then stepped straight through the… And rested on a beam; And then together bore away
652 A Prison gets to be a friend— Between its Ponderous face And Ours—a Kinsmanship express— And in its narrow Eyes—
69 Low at my problem bending, Another problem comes— Larger than mine—Serener— Involving statelier sums.
This was a Poet —It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings — And Attar so immense From the familiar species
980 Purple—is fashionable twice— This season of the year, And when a soul perceives itself To be an Emperor.
405 It might be lonelier Without the Loneliness— I’m so accustomed to my Fate— Perhaps the Other—Peace—
895 A Cloud withdrew from the Sky Superior Glory be But that Cloud and its Auxiliarie… Are forever lost to me
Dying at my music! Bubble! Bubble! Hold me till the Octave’s run! Quick! Burst the Windows! Ritardando!
LVI Faith is a fine invention For gentlemen who see; But microscopes are prudent In an emergency!
After great pain a formal feeling… The nerves sit ceremonious like to… The stiff Heart questions—was it… And yesterday—or centuries before? The feet, mechanical, go round
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,