#AmericanWriters #FemaleWriters #XIXCentury
I measure every Grief I meet With narrow, probing, Eyes— I wonder if It weighs like Mine— Or has an Easier size. I wonder if They bore it long—
916 His Feet are shod with Gauze— His Helmet, is of Gold, His Breast, a Single Onyx With Chrysophrase, inlaid.
182 If I shouldn’t be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb.
An everywhere of silver, With ropes of sand To keep it from effacing The track called land.
87 A darting fear—a pomp—a tear— A waking on a morn To find that what one waked for, Inhales the different dawn.
23 I had a guinea golden— I lost it in the sand— And tho’ the sum was simple And pounds were in the land—
’T IS so much joy! ’T is so much… If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I Have ventured all upon a throw; Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so
Come slowly, Eden Lips unused to thee. Bashful, sip thy jasmines, As the fainting bee,
781 To wait an Hour—is long— If Love be just beyond— To wait Eternity—is short— If Love reward the end—
He fumbles at your spirit As players at the keys Before they drop full music on; He stuns you by degrees, Prepares your brittle substance
306 The Soul’s Superior instants Occur to Her—alone— When friend—and Earth’s occasion Have infinite withdrawn—
I cannot live with You— It would be Life— And Life is over there— Behind the Shelf The Sexton keeps the Key to—
241 I like a look of Agony, Because I know it’s true— Men do not sham Convulsion, Nor simulate, a Throe—
61 Papa above! Regard a Mouse O’erpowered by the Cat! Reserve within thy kingdom
734 If He were living—dare I ask— And how if He be dead— And so around the Words I went— Of meeting them—afraid—
