#AmericanWriters
719 A South Wind—has a pathos Of individual Voice— As One detect on Landings An Emigrant’s address.
273 He put the Belt around my life I heard the Buckle snap— And turned away, imperial, My Lifetime folding up—
1034 His Bill an Auger is, His Head, a Cap and Frill. He laboreth at every Tree A Worm, His utmost Goal.
823 Not that We did, shall be the tes… When Act and Will are done But what Our Lord infers We woul… Had We diviner been—
XXV Wild nights—Wild nights! Were I with thee Wild nights should be Our luxury!
588 I cried at Pity—not at Pain— I heard a Woman say “Poor Child”—and something in her… Convicted me—of me—
On this wondrous sea Sailing silently, Ho! Pilot, ho! Knowest thou the shore Where no breakers roar—
Years I had been from home, And now, before the door I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before Stare vacant into mine
175 I have never seen “Volcanoes”— But, when Travellers tell How those old—phlegmatic mountains Usually so still—
550 I cross till I am weary A Mountain—in my mind— More Mountains—then a Sea— More Seas—And then
623 It was too late for Man— But early, yet, for God— Creation—impotent to help— But Prayer—remained—Our Side—
807 Expectation—is Contentment— Gain—Satiety— But Satiety—Conviction Of Necessity
155 The Murmur of a Bee A Witchcraft—yieldeth me— If any ask me why— ’Twere easier to die—
339 I tend my flowers for thee— Bright Absentee! My Fuchsia’s Coral Seams Rip—while the Sower—dreams—
97 The rainbow never tells me That gust and storm are by, Yet is she more convincing Than Philosophy.
