#AmericanWriters
I SHOULD have been too glad, I… Too lifted for the scant degree Of life’s penurious round; My little circuit would have shame… This new circumference, have blame…
164 Mama never forgets her birds, Though in another tree— She looks down just as often And just as tenderly
917 Love—is anterior to Life— Posterior—to Death— Initial of Creation, and The Exponent of Earth—
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
824 [first version] The Wind begun to knead the Grass… As Women do a Dough— He flung a Hand full at the Plain…
Not any sunny tone From any fervent zone Find entrance there - Better a grave of Balm Toward human nature’s home -
The Work of Her that went, The Toil of Fellows done - In Ovens green our Mother bakes, By Fires of the Sun.
347 When Night is almost done— And Sunrise grows so near That we can touch the Spaces— It’s time to smooth the Hair—
539 The Province of the Saved Should be the Art—To save— Through Skill obtained in Themsel… The Science of the Grave
276 Many a phrase has the English lan… I have heard but one— Low as the laughter of the Cricke… Loud, as the Thunder’s Tongue—
233 The Lamp burns sure—within— Tho’ Serfs—supply the Oil— It matters not the busy Wick— At her phosphoric toil!
XX ARCTURUS is his other name,— I ’d rather call him star! It ’s so unkind of science To go and interfere!
XXVI THE brain within its groove Runs evenly and true; But let a splinter swerve, ’T were easier for you
Of so divine a Loss We enter but the Gain, Indemnity for Loneliness That such a Bliss has been.
XIX PAIN has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not.
