#AmericanWriters
The Butterfly upon the Sky, That doesn’t know its Name And hasn’t any tax to pay And hasn’t any Home Is just as high as you and I,
164 Mama never forgets her birds, Though in another tree— She looks down just as often And just as tenderly
952 A Man may make a Remark— In itself—a quiet thing That may furnish the Fuse unto a… In dormant nature—lain—
XIII THE soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more.
156 You love me—you are sure— I shall not fear mistake— I shall not cheated wake— Some grinning morn—
44 If she had been the Mistletoe And I had been the Rose— How gay upon your table My velvet life to close—
The wind tapped like a tired man, And like a host, ‘Come in,’ I boldly answered; entered then My residence within A rapid, footless guest,
Each life converges to some centre Expressed or still; Exists in every human nature A goal, Admitted scarcely to itself, it ma…
912 Peace is a fiction of our Faith— The Bells a Winter Night Bearing the Neighbor out of Sound That never did alight.
184 A transport one cannot contain May yet a transport be— Though God forbid it lift the lid… Unto its Ecstasy!
886 These tested Our Horizon— Then disappeared As Birds before achieving A Latitude.
Dare you see a Soul at the White… Then crouch within the door— Red—is the Fire’s common tint— But when the vivid Ore Has vanquished Flame’s conditions…
489 We pray—to Heaven— We prate—of Heaven— Relate—when Neighbors die— At what o’clock to heaven—they fle…
521 Endow the Living—with the Tears— You squander on the Dead, And They were Men and Women—now, Around Your Fireside—
910 Experience is the Angled Road Preferred against the Mind By—Paradox—the Mind itself— Presuming it to lead