#AmericanWriters
828 The Robin is the One That interrupt the Morn With hurried—few—express Reports When March is scarcely on—
173 A fuzzy fellow, without feet, Yet doth exceeding run! Of velvet, is his Countenance, And his Complexion, dun!
373 I’m saying every day “If I should be a Queen, tomorrow… I’d do this way— And so I deck, a little,
931 Noon—is the Hinge of Day— Evening—the Tissue Door— Morning—the East compelling the s… Till all the World is ajar—
894 Of Consciousness, her awful Mate The Soul cannot be rid— As easy the secreting her Behind the Eyes of God.
140 An altered look about the hills— A Tyrian light the village fills— A wider sunrise in the morn— A deeper twilight on the lawn—
Immured in Heaven! What a Cell! Let every Bondage be, Thou sweetest of the Universe, Like that which ravished thee!
203 He forgot—and I—remembered— ’Twas an everyday affair— Long ago as Christ and Peter— “Warmed them” at the “Temple fire…
596 When I was small, a Woman died— Today—her Only Boy Went up from the Potomac— His face all Victory
He ate and drank the precious Wor… His Spirit grew robust— He knew no more that he was poor, Nor that his frame was Dust— He danced along the dingy Days
720 No Prisoner be— Where Liberty— Himself—abide with Thee—
113 Our share of night to bear— Our share of morning— Our blank in bliss to fill Our blank in scorning—
626 Only God—detect the Sorrow— Only God— The Jehovahs—are no Babblers— Unto God—
365 Dare you see a Soul at the White… Then crouch within the door— Red—is the Fire’s common tint— But when the vivid Ore
Not in this world to see his face Sounds long, until I read the pla… Where this is said to be But just the primer to a life Unopened, rare, upon the shelf,