#AmericanWriters
212 Least Rivers—docile to some sea. My Caspian—thee.
719 A South Wind—has a pathos Of individual Voice— As One detect on Landings An Emigrant’s address.
208 The Rose did caper on her cheek— Her Bodice rose and fell— Her pretty speech—like drunken men… Did stagger pitiful—
911 Too little way the House must lie From every Human Heart That holds in undisputed Lease A white inhabitant—
853 When One has given up One’s life The parting with the rest Feels easy, as when Day lets go Entirely the West
713 Fame of Myself, to justify, All other Plaudit be Superfluous—An Incense Beyond Necessity—
XLVII IS Heaven a physician? They say that He can heal; But medicine posthumous Is unavailable.
If ever the lid gets off my head And lets the brain away The fellow will go where he belong… Without a hint from me, And the world– if the world be lo…
Immured in Heaven! What a Cell! Let every Bondage be, Thou sweetest of the Universe, Like that which ravished thee!
910 Experience is the Angled Road Preferred against the Mind By—Paradox—the Mind itself— Presuming it to lead
372 I know lives, I could miss Without a Misery— Others—whose instant’s wanting— Would be Eternity—
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,
276 Many a phrase has the English lan… I have heard but one— Low as the laughter of the Cricke… Loud, as the Thunder’s Tongue—
442 God made a little Gentian— It tried—to be a Rose— And failed—and all the Summer lau… But just before the Snows
The Notice that is called the Spr… Is but a month from here - Put up my Heart thy Hoary work And take a Rosy Chair. Not any House the Flowers keep -