#AmericanWriters
Me prove it now—Whoever doubt Me stop to prove it—now— Make haste—the Scruple! Death be… For Opportunity— The River reaches to my feet—
291 How the old Mountains drip with S… How the Hemlocks burn— How the Dun Brake is draped in C… By the Wizard Sun—
To make a prairie it takes a clove… One clover, and a bee. And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few.
A feather from the Whippoorwill That everlasting—sings! Whose galleries—are Sunrise— Whose Opera—the Springs— Whose Emerald Nest the Ages spin
Lightly stepped a yellow star To its lofty place - Loosed the Moon her silver hat From her lustral Face - All of Evening softly lit
Wild Nights! Wild Nights! Were I with thee, Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile the winds
17 Baffled for just a day or two— Embarrassed—not afraid— Encounter in my garden An unexpected Maid.
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!
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,
383 Exhiliration—is within— There can no Outer Wine So royally intoxicate As that diviner Brand
975 The Mountain sat upon the Plain In his tremendous Chair— His observation omnifold, His inquest, everywhere—
113 Our share of night to bear— Our share of morning— Our blank in bliss to fill Our blank in scorning—
777 The Loneliness One dare not sound… And would as soon surmise As in its Grave go plumbing To ascertain the size—
183 I’ve heard an Organ talk, sometim… In a Cathedral Aisle, And understood no word it said— Yet held my breath, the while—
566 A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink— I hunted all the Sand— I caught the Dripping of a Rock And bore it in my Hand—
