#AmericanWriters
704 672 No matter—now—Sweet— But when I’m Earl— Won’t you wish you’d spoken
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—
Longing is like the Seed That wrestles in the Ground, Believing if it intercede It shall at length be found. The Hour, and the Clime -
71 A throe upon the features— A hurry in the breath— An ecstasy of parting Denominated “Death”—
350 They leave us with the Infinite. But He—is not a man— His fingers are the size of fists— His fists, the size of men—
574 My first well Day — since many il… I asked to go abroad, And take the Sunshine in my hands… And see the things in Pod —
8 There is a word Which bears a sword Can pierce an armed man— It hurls its barbed syllables
564 My period had come for Prayer— No other Art—would do— My Tactics missed a rudiment— Creator—Was it you?
971 Robbed by Death—but that was easy… To the failing Eye I could hold the latest Glowing— Robbed by Liberty
I dwell in Possibility – A fairer House than Prose – More numerous of Windows – Superior – for Doors – Of Chambers as the Cedars –
628 They called me to the Window, for “ ’Twas Sunset”—Some one said— I only saw a Sapphire Farm— And just a Single Herd—
The pedigree of honey Does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him Is aristocracy.
The Savior must have been A docile Gentleman— To come so far so cold a Day For little Fellowmen— The Road to Bethlehem
Whole Gulfs– of Red, and Fleets… And Crews– of solid Blood – Did place upon the West– Tonight… As ’twere specific Ground - And They– appointed Creatures –
We like March, his shoes are purp… He is new and high; Makes he mud for dog and peddler, Makes he forest dry; Knows the adder’s tongue his comin…