#AmericanWriters
Two butterflies went out at noon And waltzed above a stream, Then stepped straight through the… And rested on a beam; And then together bore away
286 That after Horror — that ’twas us… That passed the mouldering Pier — Just as the Granite Crumb let go… Our Savior, by a Hair —
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
LXIII TALK with prudence to a beggar Of “Potosi” and the mines! Reverently to the hungry Of your viands and your wines!
437 Prayer is the little implement Through which Men reach Where Presence—is denied them. They fling their Speech
Departed to the judgment, A mighty afternoon; Great clouds like ushers leaning, Creation looking on. The flesh surrendered, cancelled
188 Make me a picture of the sun— So I can hang it in my room— And make believe I’m getting warm When others call it “Day”!
980 Purple—is fashionable twice— This season of the year, And when a soul perceives itself To be an Emperor.
543 I fear a Man of frugal Speech— I fear a Silent Man— Haranguer—I can overtake— Or Babbler—entertain—
119 Talk with prudence to a Beggar Of “Potose,” and the mines! Reverently, to the Hungry Of your viands, and your wines!
Perhaps I asked too large— I take—no less than skies— For Earths, grow thick as Berries, in my native town— My Basked holds—just—Firmaments—
481 The Himmaleh was known to stoop Unto the Daisy low— Transported with Compassion That such a Doll should grow
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—
600 It troubled me as once I was— For I was once a Child— Concluding how an Atom—fell— And yet the Heavens—held—
557 She hideth Her the last— And is the first, to rise— Her Night doth hardly recompense The Closing of Her eyes—
