#Americans #Women #XIXCentury
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry....
The Soul unto itself Is an imperial friend— Or the most agonizing Spy— An Enemy—could send— Secure against its own—
892 Who occupies this House? A Stranger I must judge Since No one know His Circumstan… ’Tis well the name and age
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading—treading—till it see… That Sense was breaking through— And when they all were seated,
661 Could I but ride indefinite As doth the Meadow Bee And visit only where I liked And No one visit me
The cricket sang, And set the sun, And workmen finished, one by one, Their seam the day upon. The low grass loaded with the dew,
506 He touched me, so I live to know That such a day, permitted so, I groped upon his breast— It was a boundless place to me
XLV DELIGHT becomes pictorial When viewed through pain,— More fair, because impossible That any gain.
558 But little Carmine hath her face— Of Emerald scant—her Gown— Her Beauty—is the love she doth— Itself—exhibit—Mine&md ash;
938 Fairer through Fading—as the Day Into the Darkness dips away— Half Her Complexion of the Sun— Hindering—Haunting—Perishing—
191 The Skies can’t keep their secret… They tell it to the Hills— The Hills just tell the Orchards— And they—the Daffodils!
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—
349 I had the Glory—that will do— An Honor, Thought can turn her to When lesser Fames invite— With one long “Nay”—
377 To lose one’s faith—surpass The loss of an Estate— Because Estates can be Replenished—faith cannot—
957 As One does Sickness over In convalescent Mind, His scrutiny of Chances By blessed Health obscured—
