#AmericanWriters
661 Could I but ride indefinite As doth the Meadow Bee And visit only where I liked And No one visit me
283 A Mien to move a Queen— Half Child—Half Heroine— An Orleans in the Eye That puts its manner by
281 ’Tis so appalling—it exhilarates— So over Horror, it half Captivate… The Soul stares after it, secure— A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more…
69 Low at my problem bending, Another problem comes— Larger than mine—Serener— Involving statelier sums.
933 Two Travellers perishing in Snow The Forests as they froze Together heard them strengthening Each other with the words
804 No Notice gave She, but a Change… No Message, but a Sigh— For Whom, the Time did not suffic… That She should specify.
To make a prairie it takes a clove… One clover, and a bee. And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few.
Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate Whose table once a Guest but not The second time is set.
277 What if I say I shall not wait! What if I burst the fleshly Gate— And pass escaped—to thee! What if I file this Mortal—off—
608 Afraid! Of whom am I afraid? Not Death—for who is He? The Porter of my Father’s Lodge As much abasheth me!
941 The Lady feeds Her little Bird At rarer intervals— The little Bird would not dissent But meekly recognize
930 There is a June when Corn is cut And Roses in the Seed— A Summer briefer than the first But tenderer indeed
427 I’ll clutch—and clutch— Next—One—Might be the golden touc… Could take it— Diamonds—Wait—
73 Who never lost, are unprepared A Coronet to find! Who never thirsted Flagons, and Cooling Tamarind!
Wild Nights! Wild Nights! Were I with thee, Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile the winds
