#AmericanWriters
Death is like the insect Menacing the tree, Competent to kill it, But decoyed may be. Bait it with the balsam,
863 That Distance was between Us That is not of Mile or Main— The Will it is that situates— Equator—never can—
The spry Arms of the Wind If I could crawl between I have an errand imminent To an adjoining Zone - I should not care to stop
233 The Lamp burns sure—within— Tho’ Serfs—supply the Oil— It matters not the busy Wick— At her phosphoric toil!
549 That I did always love I bring thee Proof That till I loved I never lived—Enough—
153 Dust is the only Secret— Death, the only One You cannot find out all about In his “native town.”
942 Snow beneath whose chilly softness Some that never lay Make their first Repose this Wint… I admonish Thee
Nature rarer uses yellow Than another hue; Saves she all of that for sunsets,… Prodigal of blue, Spending scarlet like a woman,
LVIII PORTRAITS are to daily faces As an evening west To a fine, pedantic sunshine In a satin vest.
There is no Silence in the Earth… As that endured Which uttered, would discourage N… And haunt the World.
Like trains of cars on tracks of p… I hear the level bee: A jar across the flowers goes, Their velvet masonry Withstands until the sweet assault
753 My Soul—accused me—And I quailed… As Tongue of Diamond had reviled All else accused me—and I smiled— My Soul—that Morning—was My frie…
666 Ah, Teneriffe! Retreating Mountain! Purples of Ages—pause for you— Sunset—reviews her Sapphire Regim…
779 The Service without Hope— Is tenderest, I think— Because ’tis unsustained By stint—Rewarded Work—
556 The Brain, within its Groove Runs evenly—and true— But let a Splinter swerve— ’Twere easier for You—
