#AmericanWriters
334 All the letters I can write Are not fair as this— Syllables of Velvet— Sentences of Plush,
22 All these my banners be. I sow my pageantry In May— It rises train by train—
889 Crisis is a Hair Toward which the forces creep Past which forces retrograde If it come in sleep
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—
980 Purple—is fashionable twice— This season of the year, And when a soul perceives itself To be an Emperor.
877 Each Scar I’ll keep for Him Instead I’ll say of Gem In His long Absence worn A Costlier one
Witchcraft has not a Pedigree ’Tis early as our Breath And mourners meet it going out The moment of our death—
Could mortal lip divine The undeveloped Freight Of a delivered syllable ‘Twould crumble with the weight.
My life had stood—a Loaded Gun— In Corners—till a Day The Owner passed—identified— And carried Me away— And now We roam in Sovereign Woo…
854 Banish Air from Air— Divide Light if you dare— They’ll meet While Cubes in a Drop
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—
To die—takes just a little while— They say it doesn’t hurt— It’s only fainter—by degrees— And then—it’s out of sight— A darker Ribbon—for a Day—
LVIII PORTRAITS are to daily faces As an evening west To a fine, pedantic sunshine In a satin vest.
The Sun kept setting—setting—stil… No Hue of Afternoon— Upon the Village I perceived From House to House ’twas Noon— The Dusk kept dropping—dropping—s…
174 At last, to be identified! At last, the lamps upon thy side The rest of Life to see! Past Midnight! Past the Morning…
