#AmericanWriters
451 The Outer—from the Inner Derives its Magnitude— ’Tis Duke, or Dwarf, according As is the Central Mood—
635 I think the longest Hour of all Is when the Cars have come— And we are waiting for the Coach— It seems as though the Time
LVI Faith is a fine invention For gentlemen who see; But microscopes are prudent In an emergency!
117 In rags mysterious as these The shining Courtiers go— Veiling the purple, and the plumes… Veiling the ermine so.
126 To fight aloud, is very brave— But gallanter, I know Who charge within the bosom The Cavalry of Woe—
1034 His Bill an Auger is, His Head, a Cap and Frill. He laboreth at every Tree A Worm, His utmost Goal.
462 Why make it doubt — it hurts it so… So sick — to guess — So strong — to know — So brave — upon its little Bed
976 Death is a Dialogue between The Spirit and the Dust. “Dissolve” says Death—The Spirit… I have another Trust”—
322 There came a Day at Summer’s full… Entirely for me— I thought that such were for the… Where Resurrections—be—
XLV DELIGHT becomes pictorial When viewed through pain,— More fair, because impossible That any gain.
233 The Lamp burns sure—within— Tho’ Serfs—supply the Oil— It matters not the busy Wick— At her phosphoric toil!
76 Exultation is the going Of an inland soul to sea, Past the houses—past the headlands… Into deep Eternity—
994 Partake as doth the Bee, Abstemiously. The Rose is an Estate— In Sicily.
656 The name—of it—is “Autumn”— The hue—of it—is Blood— An Artery—upon the Hill— A Vein—along the Road—
541 Some such Butterfly be seen On Brazilian Pampas— Just at noon—no later—Sweet— Then—the License closes—