#AmericanWriters
204 I’ll tell you how the Sun rose— A Ribbon at a time— The Steeples swam in Amethyst— The news, like Squirrels, ran—
His bill an auger is, His head, a cap and frill. He laboreth at every tree,— A worm his utmost goal.
The grave my little cottage is, Where 'Keeping house’ for thee I make my parlor orderly And lay the marble tea. For two divided, briefly,
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
477 No Man can compass a Despair— As round a Goalless Road No faster than a Mile at once The Traveller proceed—
Those fair—fictitious People— The Women—plucked away From our familiar Lifetime— The Men of Ivory— Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas—
719 A South Wind—has a pathos Of individual Voice— As One detect on Landings An Emigrant’s address.
LXVI WHEN I hoped I feared, Since I hoped I dared; Everywhere alone As a church remain;
393 Did Our Best Moment last— ‘Twould supersede the Heaven— A few—and they by Risk—procure— So this Sort—are not given—
950 The Sunset stopped on Cottages Where Sunset hence must be For treason not of His, but Life’… Gone Westerly, Today—
922 Those who have been in the Grave… Those who begin Today— Equally perish from our Practise— Death is the other way—
The Soul unto itself Is an imperial friend— Or the most agonizing Spy— An Enemy—could send— Secure against its own—
983 Ideals are the Fairly Oil With which we help the Wheel But when the Vital Axle turns The Eye rejects the Oil.
646 I think to Live—may be a Bliss To those who dare to try— Beyond my limit to conceive— My lip—to testify—
560 It knew no lapse, nor Diminuation… But large—serene— Burned on—until through Dissoluti… It failed from Men—
