#AmericanWriters
229 A Burdock—clawed my Gown— Not Burdock’s—blame— But mine— Who went too near
453 Love—thou art high— I cannot climb thee— But, were it Two— Who know but we—
The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,— The sweeping up the heart,
Nature rarer uses Yellow Than another Hue. Saves she all of that for Sunsets Prodigal of Blue Spending Scarlet, like a Woman
7 The feet of people walking home With gayer sandals go— The Crocus—til she rises The Vassal of the snow—
178 I cautious, scanned my little life… I winnowed what would fade From what would last till Heads l… Should be a-dreaming laid.
154 Except to Heaven, she is nought. Except for Angels—lone. Except to some wide-wandering Bee A flower superfluous blown.
327 Before I got my eye put out I liked as well to see— As other Creatures, that have Eye… And know no other way—
544 The Martyr Poets—did not tell— But wrought their Pang in syllabl… That when their mortal name be num… Their mortal fate—encourage Some—
316 The Wind didn’t come from the Orc… Further than that— Nor stop to play with the Hay— Nor joggle a Hat—
596 When I was small, a Woman died— Today—her Only Boy Went up from the Potomac— His face all Victory
657 I dwell in Possibility— A fairer House than Prose— More numerous of Windows— Superior—for Doors—
283 A Mien to move a Queen— Half Child—Half Heroine— An Orleans in the Eye That puts its manner by
623 It was too late for Man— But early, yet, for God— Creation—impotent to help— But Prayer—remained—Our Side—
FATE slew him, but he did not dr… She felled’—he did not fall’— Impaled him on her fiercest stakes… He neutralized them all. She stung him, sapped his firm adv…