#AmericanWriters
161 A feather from the Whippoorwill That everlasting—sings! Whose galleries—are Sunrise— Whose Opera—the Springs—
922 Those who have been in the Grave… Those who begin Today— Equally perish from our Practise— Death is the other way—
When Memory is full Put on the perfect Lid - This Morning’s finest syllable Presumptuous Evening said -
460 I know where Wells grow’—Droughtl… Deep dug’—for Summer days’— Where Mosses go no more away’— And Pebble’—safely plays’—
A little East of Jordan, Evangelists record, A Gymnast and an Angel Did wrestle long and hard— Till morning touching mountain—
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,
LXII BEFORE I got my eye put out, I liked as well to see As other creatures that have eyes, And know no other way.
140 An altered look about the hills— A Tyrian light the village fills— A wider sunrise in the morn— A deeper twilight on the lawn—
608 Afraid! Of whom am I afraid? Not Death—for who is He? The Porter of my Father’s Lodge As much abasheth me!
29 If those I loved were lost The Crier’s voice would tell me— If those I loved were found The bells of Ghent would ring—
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—
79 Going to Heaven! I don’t know when— Pray do not ask me how! Indeed I’m too astonished
648 Promise This—When You be Dying— Some shall summon Me— Mine belong Your latest Sighing— Mine—to Belt Your Eye—
II OUR share of night to bear, Our share of morning, Our blank in bliss to fill, Our blank in scorning.
818 I could not drink it, Sweet, Till You had tasted first, Though cooler than the Water was The Thoughtfullness of Thirst.