#AmericanWriters #FemaleWriters #XIXCentury
LXXXII THERE’S a certain slant of ligh… On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes.
344 ’Twas the old—road—through pain— That unfrequented—One— With many a turn—and thorn— That stops—at Heaven—
275 Doubt Me! My Dim Companion! Why, God, would be content With but a fraction of the Life— Poured thee, without a stint—
945 This is a Blossom of the Brain— A small—italic Seed Lodged by Design or Happening The Spirit fructified—
637 The Child’s faith is new— Whole—like His Principle— Wide—like the Sunrise On fresh Eyes—
685 Not “Revelation”—'tis—that waits, But our unfurnished eyes—
696 Their Height in Heaven comforts n… Their Glory—nought to me— ’Twas best imperfect—as it was— I’m finite—I can’t see—
106 The Daisy follows soft the Sun— And when his golden walk is done— Sits shyly at his feet— He—waking—finds the flower there—
High from the earth I heard a bir… He trod upon the trees As he esteemed them trifles, And then he spied a breeze, And situated softly
209 With thee, in the Desert— With thee in the thirst— With thee in the Tamarind wood— Leopard breathes—at last!
994 Partake as doth the Bee, Abstemiously. The Rose is an Estate— In Sicily.
We play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool. The shapes, though, were similar,
XVI TO fight aloud is very brave, But gallanter, I know, Who charge within the bosom, The cavalry of woe.
Her final summer was it, And yet we guessed it not; If tenderer industriousness Pervaded her, we thought A further force of life
820 All Circumstances are the Frame In which His Face is set— All Latitudes exist for His Sufficient Continent—
