We Grow Accustomed to the Dark

A Bird, came down the Walk

A Clock stopped—

After great pain, a formal feeling comes

A narrow Fellow in the Grass (1096)

Because I Could Not Stop for Death

"Faith" is a fine invention

Fame Is a Fickle Food (1702)

Hope is a strange invention

"Hope" Is the Thing with Feathers

I Can Wade Grief

I Felt a Cleaving in my Mind

I Felt a Funeral, in My Brain

If I Can Stop One Heart from Breaking

If I should die

If you were coming in the fall

I heard a Fly buzz — when I died

I'm Nobody! Who Are You?

Much Madness is divinest Sense—

Success Is Counted Sweetest

Tell all the truth but tell it slant