#Americans #Women #XIXCentury
142 Whose are the little beds, I aske… Which in the valleys lie? Some shook their heads, and others… And no one made reply.
XLI THE soul unto itself Is an imperial friend,— Or the most agonizing spy An enemy could send.
113 Our share of night to bear— Our share of morning— Our blank in bliss to fill Our blank in scorning—
648 Promise This—When You be Dying— Some shall summon Me— Mine belong Your latest Sighing— Mine—to Belt Your Eye—
XXII I had no time to hate, because The grave would hinder me, And life was not so ample I Could finish enmity.
425 Good Morning—Midnight— I’m coming Home— Day—got tired of Me— How could I—of Him?
Water makes many Beds For those averse to sleep - Its awful chamber open stands - Its Curtains blandly sweep - Abhorrent is the Rest
A still – Volcano – Life – That flickered in the night – When it was dark enough to do Without erasing sight – A quiet – Earthquake Style –
A long, long sleep, a famous sleep That makes no show for dawn By strech of limb or stir of lid,— An independent one. Was ever idleness like this?
The Butterfly in honored Dust Assuredly will lie But none will pass the Catacomb So chastened as the Fly -
349 I had the Glory—that will do— An Honor, Thought can turn her to When lesser Fames invite— With one long “Nay”—
633 When Bells stop ringing—Church—be… The Positive—of Bells— When Cogs—stop—that's Circumferen… The Ultimate—of Wheels.
Witchcraft has not a Pedigree ’Tis early as our Breath And mourners meet it going out The moment of our death—
841 A Moth the hue of this Haunts Candles in Brazil. Nature’s Experience would make Our Reddest Second pale.
The butterfly obtains But little sympathy Though favorably mentioned In Entomology - Because he travels freely