#AmericanWriters
141 Some, too fragile for winter winds The thoughtful grave encloses— Tenderly tucking them in from fros… Before their feet are cold.
514 Her smile was shaped like other sm… The Dimples ran along— And still it hurt you, as some Bi… Did hoist herself, to sing,
252 I can wade Grief— Whole Pools of it— I’m used to that— But the least push of Joy
220 Could I—then—shut the door— Lest my beseeching face—at last— Rejected—be—of Her?
896 Of Silken Speech and Specious Sh… A Traitor is the Bee His service to the newest Grace Present continually
The going from a world we know To one a wonder still Is like the child’s adversity Whose vista is a hill, Behind the hill is sorcery
The Hills erect their Purple Hea… The Rivers lean to see Yet Man has not of all the Throng A Curiosity.
646 I think to Live—may be a Bliss To those who dare to try— Beyond my limit to conceive— My lip—to testify—
983 Ideals are the Fairly Oil With which we help the Wheel But when the Vital Axle turns The Eye rejects the Oil.
828 The Robin is the One That interrupt the Morn With hurried—few—express Reports When March is scarcely on—
633 When Bells stop ringing—Church—be… The Positive—of Bells— When Cogs—stop—that's Circumferen… The Ultimate—of Wheels.
57 To venerate the simple days Which lead the seasons by, Needs but to remember That from you or I,
699 The Judge is like the Owl— I’ve heard my Father tell— And Owls do build in Oaks— So here’s an Amber Sill—
XIV I’M ceded, I ’ve stopped being th… The name they dropped upon my face With water, in the country church, Is finished using now,
The Hills in Purple syllables The Day’s Adventures tell To little Groups of Continents Just going Home from School.
