#AmericanWriters
801 I play at Riches—to appease The Clamoring for Gold— It kept me from a Thief, I think, For often, overbold
929 How far is it to Heaven? As far as Death this way— Of River or of Ridge beyond Was no discovery.
344 ’Twas the old—road—through pain— That unfrequented—One— With many a turn—and thorn— That stops—at Heaven—
The Clover’s simple Fame Remembered of the Cow - Is better than enameled Realms Of notability. Renown perceives itself
266 This—is the land—the Sunset washe… These—are the Banks of the Yellow… Where it rose—or whither it rushes… These—are the Western Mystery!
792 Through the strait pass of sufferi… The Martyrs—even—trod. Their feet—upon Temptations— Their faces—upon God—
930 There is a June when Corn is cut And Roses in the Seed— A Summer briefer than the first But tenderer indeed
79 Going to Heaven! I don’t know when— Pray do not ask me how! Indeed I’m too astonished
277 What if I say I shall not wait! What if I burst the fleshly Gate— And pass escaped—to thee! What if I file this Mortal—off—
316 The Wind didn’t come from the Orc… Further than that— Nor stop to play with the Hay— Nor joggle a Hat—
193 I shall know why—when Time is ove… And I have ceased to wonder why— Christ will explain each separate… In the fair schoolroom of the sky—
694 The Heaven vests for Each In that small Deity It craved the grace to worship Some bashful Summer’s Day—
876 It was a Grave, yet bore no Stone Enclosed ’twas not of Rail A Consciousness its Acre, and It held a Human Soul.
I went to heaven,— ‘T was a small town, Lit with a ruby, Lathed with down. Stiller than the fields
106 The Daisy follows soft the Sun— And when his golden walk is done— Sits shyly at his feet— He—waking—finds the flower there—