#AmericanWriters
681 Soil of Flint, if steady tilled— Will refund by Hand— Seed of Palm, by Libyan Sun Fructified in Sand—
241 I like a look of Agony, Because I know it’s true— Men do not sham Convulsion, Nor simulate, a Throe—
The dying need but little, dear,— A glass of water’s all, A flower’s unobtrusive face To punctuate the wall, A fan, perhaps, a friend’s regret,
His bill an auger is, His head, a cap and frill. He laboreth at every tree,— A worm his utmost goal.
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,
652 A Prison gets to be a friend— Between its Ponderous face And Ours—a Kinsmanship express— And in its narrow Eyes—
918 Only a Shrine, but Mine— I made the Taper shine— Madonna dim, to whom all Feet may… Regard a Nun—
924 Love—is that later Thing than Dea… More previous—than Life— Confirms it at its entrance—And Usurps it—of itself—
XCIX THERE is no frigate like a book To take us lands away, Nor any coursers like a page Of prancing poetry.
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.
972 Unfulfilled to Observation— Incomplete—to Eye— But to Faith—a Revolution In Locality—
232 The Sun—just touched the Morning— The Morning—Happy thing— Supposed that He had come to dwel… And Life would all be Spring!
Good night! which put the candle o… A jealous zephyr, not a doubt. Ah! friend, you little knew How long at that celestial wick The angels labored diligent;
783 The Birds begun at Four o’clock— Their period for Dawn— A Music numerous as space— But neighboring as Noon—
367 Over and over, like a Tune— The Recollection plays— Drums off the Phantom Battlements Cornets of Paradise—