#AmericanWriters
16 I would distil a cup, And bear to all my friends, Drinking to her no more astir, By beck, or burn, or moor!
159 A little bread—a crust—a crumb— A little trust—a demijohn— Can keep the soul alive— Not portly, mind! but breathing—wa…
869 Because the Bee may blameless hum For Thee a Bee do I become List even unto Me. Because the Flowers unafraid
Yesterday is History, ’Tis so far away - Yesterday is Poetry - ’Tis Philosophy - Yesterday is mystery -
LXVII If I should die, And you should live, And time should gurgle on, And morn should beam,
101 Will there really be a “Morning”? Is there such a thing as “Day”? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they?
962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—
773 Deprived of other Banquet, I entertained Myself— At first—a scant nutrition— An insufficient Loaf—
116 I had some things that I called m… And God, that he called his, Till, recently a rival Claim Disturbed these amities.
403 The Winters are so short— I’m hardly justified In sending all the Birds away— And moving into Pod—
603 He found my Being—set it up— Adjusted it to place— Then carved his name—upon it— And bade it to the East
The Butterfly in honored Dust Assuredly will lie But none will pass the Catacomb So chastened as the Fly -
To see her is a Picture— To hear her is a Tune— To know her an Intemperance As innocent as June— To know her not—Affliction—
VIII A wounded deer leaps highest, I ’ve heard the hunter tell; ’T is but the ecstasy of death, And then the brake is still.
867 Escaping backward to perceive The Sea upon our place— Escaping forward, to confront His glittering Embrace—