#AmericanWriters
LX The grass so little has to do,— A sphere of simple green, With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain,
463 I live with Him — I see His face… I go no more away For Visitor — or Sundown — Death's single privacy
18 The Gentian weaves her fringes— The Maple’s loom is red— My departing blossoms Obviate parade.
170 Portraits are to daily faces As an Evening West, To a fine, pedantic sunshine— In a satin Vest!
733 The Spirit is the Conscious Ear. We actually Hear When We inspect—that’s audible— That is admitted—Here—
LXIII TALK with prudence to a beggar Of “Potosi” and the mines! Reverently to the hungry Of your viands and your wines!
445 ’Twas just this time, last year,… I know I heard the Corn, When I was carried by the Farms— It had the Tassels on—
587 Empty my Heart, of Thee— Its single Artery— Begin, and leave Thee out— Simply Extinction’s Date—
244 It is easy to work when the soul i… But when the soul is in pain— The hearing him put his playthings… Makes work difficult—then—
141 Some, too fragile for winter winds The thoughtful grave encloses— Tenderly tucking them in from fros… Before their feet are cold.
XXXIV WHO never lost, are unprepared A coronet to find; Who never thirsted, flagons And cooling tamarind.
326 I cannot dance upon my Toes’— No Man instructed me’— But oftentimes, among my mind, A Glee possesseth me,
98 One dignity delays for all— One mitred Afternoon— None can avoid this purple— None evade this Crown!
725 Where Thou art—that—is Home— Cashmere—or Calvary—the same— Degree—or Shame— I scarce esteem Location’s Name—
331 While Asters— On the Hill— Their Everlasting fashions—set— And Covenant Gentians—Frill!
