#AmericanWriters
962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—
755 No Bobolink—reverse His Singing When the only Tree Ever He minded occupying By the Farmer be—
82 Whose cheek is this? What rosy face Has lost a blush today? I found her—"pleiad"—in the woods
306 The Soul’s Superior instants Occur to Her—alone— When friend—and Earth’s occasion Have infinite withdrawn—
246 Forever at His side to walk— The smaller of the two! Brain of His Brain— Blood of His Blood—
385 Smiling back from Coronation May be Luxury— On the Heads that started with us… Being’s Peasantry—
His bill an auger is, His head, a cap and frill. He laboreth at every tree,— A worm his utmost goal.
Good night! which put the candle o… A jealous zephyr, not a doubt. Ah! friend, you little knew How long at that celestial wick The angels labored diligent;
866 Fame is the tine that Scholars le… Upon their Setting Names— The Iris not of Occident That disappears as comes—
Ended, ere it begun - The Title was scarcely told When the Preface perished from Co… The Story, unrevealed - Had it been mine, to print!
731 “I want”—it pleaded—All its life— I want—was chief it said When Skill entreated it—the last— And when so newly dead—
LXII A DROP fell on the apple tree Another on the roof; A half a dozen kissed the eaves, And made the gables laugh.
Spring comes on the World - I sight the Aprils - Hueless to me until thou come As, till the Bee Blossoms stand negative,
75 She died at play, Gambolled away Her lease of spotted hours, Then sank as gaily as a Turn
101 Will there really be a “Morning”? Is there such a thing as “Day”? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they?