the prowling Bee

It will be Summer—eventually. Ladies—with parasols— Sauntering Gentlemen—with Canes— And little Girls—with Dolls— Will tint the pal...

This World is not conclusion. A Species stands beyond— Invisible, as Music— But positive, as Sound— It beckons, and it baffles— Ph...

After great pain, a formal feeling comes— The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs— The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,...

Is Bliss then, such Abyss, I must not put my foot amiss For fear I spoil my shoe? I'd rather suit my foo...

Within my Garden, rides a Bird Upon a single Wheel— Whose spokes a dizzy Music make As 'twere a travelling Mill— H...