#AmericanWriters
265 Where Ships of Purple—gently toss… On Seas of Daffodil— Fantastic Sailors—mingle— And then—the Wharf is still!
29 If those I loved were lost The Crier’s voice would tell me— If those I loved were found The bells of Ghent would ring—
Not any sunny tone From any fervent zone Find entrance there - Better a grave of Balm Toward human nature’s home -
I counted till they danced so Their slippers leaped the town, And then I took a pencil To note the rebels down. And then they grew so jolly
757 The Mountains—grow unnoticed— Their Purple figures rise Without attempt—Exhaustion— Assistance—or Applause—
350 They leave us with the Infinite. But He—is not a man— His fingers are the size of fists— His fists, the size of men—
693 Shells from the Coast mistaking— I cherished them for All— Happening in After Ages To entertain a Pearl—
208 The Rose did caper on her cheek— Her Bodice rose and fell— Her pretty speech—like drunken men… Did stagger pitiful—
72 Glowing is her Bonnet, Glowing is her Cheek, Glowing is her Kirtle, Yet she cannot speak.
A shady friend for torrid days Is easier to find Than one of higher temperature For frigid hour of mind. The vane a little to the east
Remembrance has a Rear and Front… ’Tis something like a House - It has a Garret also For Refuse and the Mouse. Besides the deepest Cellar
69 Low at my problem bending, Another problem comes— Larger than mine—Serener— Involving statelier sums.
444 It feels a shame to be Alive— When Men so brave—are dead— One envies the Distinguished Dust… Permitted—such a Head—
448 This was a Poet—It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings— And Attar so immense
312 Her—“last Poems”— Poets—ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled other,