#AmericanWriters #FemaleWriters #XIXCentury
956 What shall I do when the Summer t… What, when the Rose is ripe— What when the Eggs fly off in Mus… From the Maple Keep?
XXXII HOPE is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the wor… And never stops at all,
330 The Juggler’s Hat her Country is… The Mountain Gorse—the Bee’s!
179 If I could bribe them by a Rose I’d bring them every flower that g… From Amherst to Cashmere! I would not stop for night, or sto…
140 An altered look about the hills— A Tyrian light the village fills— A wider sunrise in the morn— A deeper twilight on the lawn—
29 If those I loved were lost The Crier’s voice would tell me— If those I loved were found The bells of Ghent would ring—
A thought went up my mind to-day That I have had before, But did not finish,—some way back, I could not fix the year, Nor where it went, nor why it came
We like March, his shoes are purp… He is new and high; Makes he mud for dog and peddler, Makes he forest dry; Knows the adder’s tongue his comin…
Delight becomes pictorial When viewed through pain,— More fair, because impossible That any gain. The mountaln at a given distance
42 A Day! Help! Help! Another Day! Your prayers, oh Passer by! From such a common ball as this Might date a Victory!
I found the phrase to every though… I ever had, but one; And that defies me,—as a hand Did try to chalk the sun To races nurtured in the dark;—
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,
751 My Worthiness is all my Doubt— His Merit—all my fear— Contrasting which, my quality Do lowlier—appear—
826 Love reckons by itself—alone— “As large as I”—relate the Sun To One who never felt it blaze— Itself is all the like it has—
That only lasts an hour How much '— how little '— is Within our power
