#AmericanWriters #FemaleWriters #XIXCentury
XVII WHEN night is almost done, And sunrise grows so near That we can touch the spaces, It ’s time to smooth the hair
Not Sickness stains the Brave, Nor any Dart, Nor Doubt of Scene to come, But an adjourning Heart -
89 Some things that fly there be— Birds—Hours—the Bumblebee— Of these no Elegy. Some things that stay there be—
XXIX THE nearest dream recedes, unreal… The heaven we chase Like the June bee Before the school—boy
Going to him! Happy letter! Tell… Tell him the page I didn’t write; Tell him I only said the syntax, And left the verb and the pronoun… Tell him just how the fingers hurr…
685 Not “Revelation”—'tis—that waits, But our unfurnished eyes—
574 My first well Day — since many il… I asked to go abroad, And take the Sunshine in my hands… And see the things in Pod —
I cannot live with You— It would be Life— And Life is over there— Behind the Shelf The Sexton keeps the Key to—
59 A little East of Jordan, Evangelists record, A Gymnast and an Angel Did wrestle long and hard—
180 As if some little Arctic flower Upon the polar hem— Went wandering down the Latitudes Until it puzzled came
18 The Gentian weaves her fringes— The Maple’s loom is red— My departing blossoms Obviate parade.
994 Partake as doth the Bee, Abstemiously. The Rose is an Estate— In Sicily.
39 It did not surprise me— So I said—or thought— She will stir her pinions And the nest forgot,
379 Rehearsal to Ourselves Of a Withdrawn Delight— Affords a Bliss like Murder— Omnipotent—Acute—
52 Whether my bark went down at sea— Whether she met with gales— Whether to isles enchanted She bent her docile sails—
