#AmericanWriters
359 I gained it so— By Climbing slow— By Catching at the Twigs that gro… Between the Bliss—and me—
369 She lay as if at play Her life had leaped away— Intending to return— But not so soon—
118 My friend attacks my friend! Oh Battle picturesque! Then I turn Soldier too, And he turns Satirist!
604 Unto my Books—so good to turn— Far ends of tired Days— It half endears the Abstinence— And Pain—is missed—in Praise—
736 Have any like Myself Investigating March, New Houses on the Hill descried— And possibly a Church—
168 If the foolish, call them “flowers… Need the wiser, tell? If the Savants “Classify” them It is just as well!
722 Sweet Mountains—Ye tell me no lie… Never deny Me—Never fly— Those same unvarying Eyes Turn on Me—when I fail—or feign,
983 Ideals are the Fairly Oil With which we help the Wheel But when the Vital Axle turns The Eye rejects the Oil.
There is no frigate like a book To take us lands away, Nor any coursers like a page Of prancing poetry. This traverse may the poorest take
Glory is that bright tragic thing That for an instant Means Dominion - Warms some poor name That never felt the Sun,
776 The Color of a Queen, is this— The Color of a Sun At setting—this and Amber— Beryl—and this, at Noon—
864 The Robin for the Crumb Returns no syllable But long records the Lady’s name In Silver Chronicle.
420 You’ll know it—as you know ’tis N… By Glory— As you do the Sun— By Glory—
The wind tapped like a tired man, And like a host, ‘Come in,’ I boldly answered; entered then My residence within A rapid, footless guest,
8 There is a word Which bears a sword Can pierce an armed man— It hurls its barbed syllables
