#AmericanWriters
428 Taking up the fair Ideal, Just to cast her down When a fracture—we discover— Or a splintered Crown—
A PRECIOUS, mouldering pleasur… To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore… A privilege, I think, His venerable hand to take,
734 If He were living—dare I ask— And how if He be dead— And so around the Words I went— Of meeting them—afraid—
928 The Heart has narrow Banks It measures like the Sea In mighty—unremitting Bass And Blue Monotony
535 She’s happy, with a new Content— That feels to her—like Sacrament— She’s busy—with an altered Care— As just apprenticed to the Air—
Delight becomes pictorial When viewed through pain,— More fair, because impossible That any gain. The mountaln at a given distance
501 This World is not Conclusion. A Species stands beyond— Invisible, as Music— But positive, as Sound—
I bet with every Wind that blew Till Nature in chagrin Employed a Fact to visit me And scuttle my Balloon -
The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,— The sweeping up the heart,
815 The Luxury to apprehend The Luxury 'twould be To look at Thee a single time An Epicure of Me
321 Of all the Sounds despatched abro… There’s not a Charge to me Like that old measure in the Boug… That phraseless Melody—
174 At last, to be identified! At last, the lamps upon thy side The rest of Life to see! Past Midnight! Past the Morning…
483 A Solemn thing within the Soul To feel itself get ripe— And golden hang—while farther up— The Maker’s Ladders stop—
430 It would never be Common—more—I s… Difference—had begun— Many a bitterness—had been— But that old sort—was done—
604 Unto my Books—so good to turn— Far ends of tired Days— It half endears the Abstinence— And Pain—is missed—in Praise—