#AmericanWriters #FemaleWriters #XIXCentury
113 Our share of night to bear— Our share of morning— Our blank in bliss to fill Our blank in scorning—
173 A fuzzy fellow, without feet, Yet doth exceeding run! Of velvet, is his Countenance, And his Complexion, dun!
His Heart was darker than the sta… For that there is a morn But in this black Receptacle Can be no Bode of Dawn
26 It’s all I have to bring today— This, and my heart beside— This, and my heart, and all the fi… And all the meadows wide—
XXXII HOPE is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the wor… And never stops at all,
168 If the foolish, call them “flowers… Need the wiser, tell? If the Savants “Classify” them It is just as well!
A light exists in spring Not present on the year At any other period. When March is scarcely here A color stands abroad
643 I could suffice for Him, I knew— He—could suffice for Me— Yet Hesitating Fractions—Both Surveyed Infinity—
722 Sweet Mountains—Ye tell me no lie… Never deny Me—Never fly— Those same unvarying Eyes Turn on Me—when I fail—or feign,
146 On such a night, or such a night, Would anybody care If such a little figure Slipped quiet from its chair—
1670 In Winter in my Room I came upon a Worm— Pink, lank and warm— But as he was a worm
LXXIX I YEARS had been from home, And now, before the door, I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before
822 This Consciousness that is aware Of Neighbors and the Sun Will be the one aware of Death And that itself alone
949 Under the Light, yet under, Under the Grass and the Dirt, Under the Beetle’s Cellar Under the Clover’s Root,
999 Superfluous were the Sun When Excellence be dead He were superfluous every Day For every Day be said
