#AmericanWriters
Of Brussels—it was not— Of Kidderminster? Nay— The Winds did buy it of the Woods… They—sold it unto me It was a gentle price—
803 Who Court obtain within Himself Sees every Man a King— And Poverty of Monarchy Is an interior thing—
25 She slept beneath a tree— Remembered but by me. I touched her Cradle mute— She recognized the foot—
922 Those who have been in the Grave… Those who begin Today— Equally perish from our Practise— Death is the other way—
535 She’s happy, with a new Content— That feels to her—like Sacrament— She’s busy—with an altered Care— As just apprenticed to the Air—
It stole along so stealthy Suspicion it was done Was dim as to the wealthy Beginning not to own -
XX ARCTURUS is his other name,— I ’d rather call him star! It ’s so unkind of science To go and interfere!
474 They put Us far apart— As separate as Sea And Her unsown Peninsula— We signified “These see”—
663 Again—his voice is at the door— I feel the old Degree— I hear him ask the servant For such an one—as me—
486 I was the slightest in the House— I took the smallest Room— At night, my little Lamp, and Boo… And one Geranium—
801 I play at Riches—to appease The Clamoring for Gold— It kept me from a Thief, I think, For often, overbold
Those fair—fictitious People— The Women—plucked away From our familiar Lifetime— The Men of Ivory— Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas—
97 The rainbow never tells me That gust and storm are by, Yet is she more convincing Than Philosophy.
MY cocoon tightens, colors tease, I 'm feeling for the air; A dim capacity for wings Degrades the dress I wear. A power of butterfly must be
143 For every Bird a Nest— Wherefore in timid quest Some little Wren goes seeking rou… Wherefore when boughs are free—
