#AmericanWriters
XXX WE play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool.
LXXXVI A LADY red upon the hill Her annual secret keeps; A lady white within the field In placid lily sleeps!
784 Bereaved of all, I went abroad— No less bereaved was I Upon a New Peninsula— The Grave preceded me—
I DIED for beauty, but was scarc… Adjusted in the tomb, When one who died for truth was la… In an adjoining room. He questioned softly why I failed…
115 What Inn is this Where for the night Peculiar Traveller comes? Who is the Landlord?
So proud she was to die It made us all ashamed That what we cherished, so unknown To her desire seemed. So satisfied to go
964 “Unto Me?” I do not know you— Where may be your House? “I am Jesus—Late of Judea— Now—of Paradise”—
He ate and drank the precious Wor… His Spirit grew robust— He knew no more that he was poor, Nor that his frame was Dust— He danced along the dingy Days
XXXVIII THROUGH the straight pass of su… The martyrs even trod, Their feet upon temptation, Their faces upon God.
405 It might be lonelier Without the Loneliness— I’m so accustomed to my Fate— Perhaps the Other—Peace—
799 Despair’s advantage is achieved By suffering—Despair— To be assisted of Reverse One must Reverse have bore—
957 As One does Sickness over In convalescent Mind, His scrutiny of Chances By blessed Health obscured—
35 Nobody knows this little Rose— It might a pilgrim be Did I not take it from the ways And lift it up to thee.
Whether they have forgotten Or are forgetting now Or never remembered - Safer not to know - Miseries of conjecture
The going from a world we know To one a wonder still Is like the child’s adversity Whose vista is a hill, Behind the hill is sorcery
