#AmericanWriters
375 The Angle of a Landscape— That every time I wake— Between my Curtain and the Wall Upon an ample Crack—
LXXXIX A WORD is dead When it is said, Some say. I say it just
671 She dwelleth in the Ground— Where Daffodils—abide— Her Maker—Her Metropolis— The Universe—Her Maid—
526 To hear an Oriole sing May be a common thing— Or only a divine. It is not of the Bird
A long, long sleep, a famous sleep That makes no show for dawn By strech of limb or stir of lid,— An independent one. Was ever idleness like this?
266 This—is the land—the Sunset washe… These—are the Banks of the Yellow… Where it rose—or whither it rushes… These—are the Western Mystery!
923 How the Waters closed above Him We shall never know— How He stretched His Anguish to… That—is covered too—
679 Conscious am I in my Chamber, Of a shapeless friend— He doth not attest by Posture— Nor Confirm—by Word—
491 While it is alive Until Death touches it While it and I lap one Air Dwell in one Blood
929 How far is it to Heaven? As far as Death this way— Of River or of Ridge beyond Was no discovery.
743 The Birds reported from the South… A News express to Me— A spicy Charge, My little Posts— But I am deaf—Today—
133 As Children bid the Guest “Good… And then reluctant turn— My flowers raise their pretty lips… Then put their nightgowns on.
596 When I was small, a Woman died— Today—her Only Boy Went up from the Potomac— His face all Victory
960 As plan for Noon and plan for Nig… So differ Life and Death In positive Prospective— The Foot upon the Earth
628 They called me to the Window, for “ ’Twas Sunset”—Some one said— I only saw a Sapphire Farm— And just a Single Herd—
