#AmericanWriters
859 A doubt if it be Us Assists the staggering Mind In an extremer Anguish Until it footing find.
Who were “the Father and the Son” We pondered when a child, And what had they to do with us And when portentous told With inference appalling
No rack can torture me, My soul’s at liberty Behind this mortal bone There knits a bolder one You cannot prick with saw,
Wild Nights! Wild Nights! Were I with thee, Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile the winds
100 A science—so the Savants say, “Comparative Anatomy”— By which a single bone— Is made a secret to unfold
1035 Bee! I’m expecting you! Was saying Yesterday To Somebody you know That you were due—
766 My Faith is larger than the Hills… So when the Hills decay— My Faith must take the Purple Wh… To show the Sun the way—
142 Whose are the little beds, I aske… Which in the valleys lie? Some shook their heads, and others… And no one made reply.
LXII A DROP fell on the apple tree Another on the roof; A half a dozen kissed the eaves, And made the gables laugh.
The thought beneath so slight a fi… Is more distincly seen,— As laces just reveal the surge, Or mists the Apennine.
872 As the Starved Maelstrom laps the… As the Vulture teased Forces the Broods in lonely Valle… As the Tiger eased
The Sun kept setting—setting—stil… No Hue of Afternoon— Upon the Village I perceived From House to House ’twas Noon— The Dusk kept dropping—dropping—s…
852 Apology for Her Be rendered by the Bee— Herself, without a Parliament Apology for Me.
994 Partake as doth the Bee, Abstemiously. The Rose is an Estate— In Sicily.
That only lasts an hour How much '— how little '— is Within our power