#AmericanWriters
681 Soil of Flint, if steady tilled— Will refund by Hand— Seed of Palm, by Libyan Sun Fructified in Sand—
580 I gave myself to Him— And took Himself, for Pay, The solemn contract of a Life Was ratified, this way—
889 Crisis is a Hair Toward which the forces creep Past which forces retrograde If it come in sleep
78 A poor—torn heart—a tattered heart… That sat it down to rest— Nor noticed that the Ebbing Day Flowed silver to the West—
LXII A DROP fell on the apple tree Another on the roof; A half a dozen kissed the eaves, And made the gables laugh.
713 Fame of Myself, to justify, All other Plaudit be Superfluous—An Incense Beyond Necessity—
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!
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading—treading—till it see… That Sense was breaking through— And when they all were seated,
Drowning is not so pitiful As the attempt to rise. Three times, 't is said, a sinking… Comes up to face the skies, And then declines forever
410 The first Day’s Night had come— And grateful that a thing So terrible—had been endured— I told my Soul to sing—
To lose thee, sweeter than to gain All other hearts I knew. Tis true the drought is destitute But, then, I had the dew! The Caspian has its realms of san…
If ever the lid gets off my head And lets the brain away The fellow will go where he belong… Without a hint from me, And the world– if the world be lo…
140 An altered look about the hills— A Tyrian light the village fills— A wider sunrise in the morn— A deeper twilight on the lawn—
966 All forgot for recollecting Just a paltry One— All forsook, for just a Stranger’… New Accompanying—
Come slowly, Eden Lips unused to thee. Bashful, sip thy jasmines, As the fainting bee,