#AmericanWriters
883 The Poets light but Lamps— Themselves—go out— The Wicks they stimulate— If vital Light
637 The Child’s faith is new— Whole—like His Principle— Wide—like the Sunrise On fresh Eyes—
755 No Bobolink—reverse His Singing When the only Tree Ever He minded occupying By the Farmer be—
XXIX THE nearest dream recedes, unreal… The heaven we chase Like the June bee Before the school—boy
We like March, his shoes are purp… He is new and high; Makes he mud for dog and peddler, Makes he forest dry; Knows the adder’s tongue his comin…
544 The Martyr Poets—did not tell— But wrought their Pang in syllabl… That when their mortal name be num… Their mortal fate—encourage Some—
171 Wait till the Majesty of Death Invests so mean a brow! Almost a powdered Footman Might dare to touch it now!
440 ’Tis customary as we part A trinket—to confer— It helps to stimulate the faith When Lovers be afar—
115 What Inn is this Where for the night Peculiar Traveller comes? Who is the Landlord?
592 What care the Dead, for Chanticle… What care the Dead for Day? ’Tis late your Sunrise vex their… And Purple Ribaldry—of Morning
I never saw a moor; I never saw the sea, Yet know I how the heather looks And what a billow be. I never spoke with God,
221 It can’t be “Summer”! That—got through! It’s early—yet—for “Spring”! There’s that long town of White—t…
638 To my small Hearth His fire came— And all my House aglow Did fan and rock, with sudden ligh… ’Twas Sunrise—'twas the Sky—
41 I robbed the Woods— The trusting Woods. The unsuspecting Trees Brought out their Burs and mosses
922 Those who have been in the Grave… Those who begin Today— Equally perish from our Practise— Death is the other way—