#AmericanWriters
742 Four Trees—upon a solitary Acre— Without Design Or Order, or Apparent Action— Maintain—
After a hundred years Nobody knows the place,— Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace. Weeds triumphant ranged,
129 Cocoon above! Cocoon below! Stealthy Cocoon, why hide you so What all the world suspect? An hour, and gay on every tree
I had no time to hate, because The grave would hinder me, And life was not so ample I Could finish enmity. Nor had I time to love, but since
962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—
182 If I shouldn’t be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb.
We play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool. The shapes, though, were similar,
The spry Arms of the Wind If I could crawl between I have an errand imminent To an adjoining Zone - I should not care to stop
As from the earth the light Ballo… Asks nothing but release - Ascension that for which it was, Its soaring Residence. The spirit looks upon the Dust
370 Heaven is so far of the Mind That were the Mind dissolved— The Site—of it—by Architect Could not again be proved—
497 He strained my faith— Did he find it supple? Shook my strong trust— Did it then—yield?
574 My first well Day — since many il… I asked to go abroad, And take the Sunshine in my hands… And see the things in Pod —
842 Good to hide, and hear 'em hunt! Better, to be found, If one care to, that is, The Fox fits the Hound—
500 Within my Garden, rides a Bird Upon a single Wheel— Whose spokes a dizzy Music make As ’twere a travelling Mill—
292 If your Nerve, deny you— Go above your Nerve— He can lean against the Grave, If he fear to swerve—