#AmericanWriters
155 The Murmur of a Bee A Witchcraft—yieldeth me— If any ask me why— ’Twere easier to die—
175 I have never seen “Volcanoes”— But, when Travellers tell How those old—phlegmatic mountains Usually so still—
519 ’Twas warm—at first—like Us— Until there crept upon A Chill—like frost upon a Glass— Till all the scene—be gone.
539 The Province of the Saved Should be the Art—To save— Through Skill obtained in Themsel… The Science of the Grave
882 A Shade upon the mind there passe… As when on Noon A Cloud the mighty Sun encloses Remembering
840 I cannot buy it—’tis not sold— There is no other in the World— Mine was the only one I was so happy I forgot
60 Like her the Saints retire, In their Chapeaux of fire, Martial as she! Like her the Evenings steal
Elysium is as far as to The very nearest Room If in that Room a Friend await Felicity or Doom— What fortitude the Soul contains
Revolution is the Pod Systems rattle from When the Winds of Will are stirre… Excellent is Bloom But except its Russet Base
Not with a club, the Heart is bro… Nor with a stone; A whip, so small you could not see… I’ve known To lash the magic creature
This is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,- The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty Her message is committed
755 No Bobolink—reverse His Singing When the only Tree Ever He minded occupying By the Farmer be—
‘T was just this time last year I… I know I heard the corn, When I was carried by the farms,— It had the tassels on. I thought how yellow it would look
52 Whether my bark went down at sea— Whether she met with gales— Whether to isles enchanted She bent her docile sails—
898 How happy I was if I could forget To remember how sad I am Would be an easy adversity But the recollecting of Bloom
