#AmericanWriters
976 Death is a Dialogue between The Spirit and the Dust. “Dissolve” says Death—The Spirit… I have another Trust”—
11 I never told the buried gold Upon the hill—that lies— I saw the sun—his plunder done Crouch low to guard his prize.
The spry Arms of the Wind If I could crawl between I have an errand imminent To an adjoining Zone - I should not care to stop
962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—
155 The Murmur of a Bee A Witchcraft—yieldeth me— If any ask me why— ’Twere easier to die—
A feather from the Whippoorwill That everlasting—sings! Whose galleries—are Sunrise— Whose Opera—the Springs— Whose Emerald Nest the Ages spin
842 Good to hide, and hear 'em hunt! Better, to be found, If one care to, that is, The Fox fits the Hound—
Those fair—fictitious People— The Women—plucked away From our familiar Lifetime— The Men of Ivory— Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas—
204 A slash of Blue— A sweep of Gray— Some scarlet patches on the way, Compose an Evening Sky—
Delight becomes pictorial When viewed through pain,— More fair, because impossible That any gain. The mountaln at a given distance
I hide myself within my flower, That wearing on your breast, You, unsuspecting, wear me too - And angels know the rest. I hide myself within my flower,
LXXXII THERE’S a certain slant of ligh… On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes.
527 To put this World down, like a Bu… And walk steady, away, Requires Energy—possibly Agony— ’Tis the Scarlet way
772 The hallowing of Pain Like hallowing of Heaven, Obtains at a corporeal cost— The Summit is not given
681 Soil of Flint, if steady tilled— Will refund by Hand— Seed of Palm, by Libyan Sun Fructified in Sand—