#AmericanWriters
566 A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink— I hunted all the Sand— I caught the Dripping of a Rock And bore it in my Hand—
862 Light is sufficient to itself— If Others want to see It can be had on Window Panes Some Hours in the Day.
8 There is a word Which bears a sword Can pierce an armed man— It hurls its barbed syllables
810 Her Grace is all she has— And that, so least displays— One Art to recognize, must be, Another Art, to praise.
Could mortal lip divine The undeveloped Freight Of a delivered syllable ‘Twould crumble with the weight.
Safe in their Alabaster Chambers— Untouched by Morning— and untouched by noon— Sleep the meek members of the Res… Rafter of Satin and Roof of Ston…
785 They have a little Odor—that to m… Is metre—nay—’tis melody— And spiciest at fading—indicate— A Habit—of a Laureate—
I’m saying every day “If I should be a Queen, tomorrow… I’d do this way — And so I deck, a little, If it be, I wake a Bourbon,
453 Love—thou art high— I cannot climb thee— But, were it Two— Who know but we—
I had not minded—Walls— Were Universe—one Rock— And far I heard his silver Call The other side the Block— I’d tunnel—till my Groove
912 Peace is a fiction of our Faith— The Bells a Winter Night Bearing the Neighbor out of Sound That never did alight.
386 Answer July— Where is the Bee— Where is the Blush— Where is the Hay?
672 The Future—never spoke— Nor will He—like the Dumb— Reveal by sign—a syllable Of His Profound To Come—
10 My wheel is in the dark! I cannot see a spoke Yet know its dripping feet Go round and round.
A little East of Jordan, Evangelists record, A Gymnast and an Angel Did wrestle long and hard— Till morning touching mountain—