#AmericanWriters
643 I could suffice for Him, I knew— He—could suffice for Me— Yet Hesitating Fractions—Both Surveyed Infinity—
379 Rehearsal to Ourselves Of a Withdrawn Delight— Affords a Bliss like Murder— Omnipotent—Acute—
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—
164 Mama never forgets her birds, Though in another tree— She looks down just as often And just as tenderly
321 Of all the Sounds despatched abro… There’s not a Charge to me Like that old measure in the Boug… That phraseless Melody—
822 This Consciousness that is aware Of Neighbors and the Sun Will be the one aware of Death And that itself alone
810 Her Grace is all she has— And that, so least displays— One Art to recognize, must be, Another Art, to praise.
645 Bereavement in their death to feel Whom We have never seen— A Vital Kinsmanship import Our Soul and theirs—between—
Abraham to kill him Was distinctly told’— Isaac was an Urchin’— Abraham was old’— Not a hesitation’—
228 Blazing in Gold and quenching in… Leaping like Leopards to the Sky Then at the feet of the old Horiz… Laying her spotted Face to die
126 To fight aloud, is very brave— But gallanter, I know Who charge within the bosom The Cavalry of Woe—
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—
746 Never for Society He shall seek in vain— Who His own acquaintance Cultivate—Of Men
LXVII Presentment is that long shadow on… Indicative that suns go down; The notice to the startled grass That darkness is about to pass.
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,
