#AmericanWriters
This is the land the sunset washes… These are the banks of the Yellow… Where it rose, or whither it rushe… These are the western mystery! Night after night her purple traff…
Not any sunny tone From any fervent zone Find entrance there - Better a grave of Balm Toward human nature’s home -
659 That first Day, when you praised… And said that I was strong— And could be mighty, if I liked— That Day—the Days among—
Of Brussels—it was not— Of Kidderminster? Nay— The Winds did buy it of the Woods… They—sold it unto me It was a gentle price—
892 Who occupies this House? A Stranger I must judge Since No one know His Circumstan… ’Tis well the name and age
733 The Spirit is the Conscious Ear. We actually Hear When We inspect—that’s audible— That is admitted—Here—
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—
“Unto Me?” I do not know you’— Where may be your House? “I am Jesus’—Late of Judea’— Now’—of Paradise"'— Wagons’—have you’—to convey me?
434 To love thee Year by Year— May less appear Than sacrifice, and cease— However, dear,
204 A slash of Blue— A sweep of Gray— Some scarlet patches on the way, Compose an Evening Sky—
The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,— The sweeping up the heart,
224 I've nothing else—to bring, You k… So I keep bringing These— Just as the Night keeps fetching… To our familiar eyes—
The Butterfly’s Assumption Gown In Chrysoprase Apartments hung This afternoon put on— How condescending to descend And be of Buttercups the friend
895 A Cloud withdrew from the Sky Superior Glory be But that Cloud and its Auxiliarie… Are forever lost to me
753 My Soul—accused me—And I quailed… As Tongue of Diamond had reviled All else accused me—and I smiled— My Soul—that Morning—was My frie…