#AmericanWriters
182 If I shouldn’t be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb.
XLIX WE outgrow love like other things And put it in the drawer, Till it an antique fashion shows Like costumes grandsires wore.
The Grass so little has to do— A Sphere of simple Green— With only Butterflies to brood And Bees to entertain— And stir all day to pretty Tunes
XL I NEVER lost as much but twice, And that was in the sod; Twice have I stood a beggar Before the door of God!
An everywhere of silver, With ropes of sand To keep it from effacing The track called land.
237 I think just how my shape will ris… When I shall be “forgiven”— Till Hair—and Eyes—and timid Hea… Are out of sight—in Heaven—
620 It makes no difference abroad— The Seasons—fit—the same— The Mornings blossom into Noons— And split their Pods of Flame—
The brain within its groove Runs evenly and true; But let a splinter swerve, ‘T were easier for you To put the water back
974 The Soul’s distinct connection With immortality Is best disclosed by Danger Or quick Calamity—
936 This Dust, and its Feature— Accredited—Today—Will in a s… Cease to identify— This Mind, and its measure—
101 Will there really be a “Morning”? Is there such a thing as “Day”? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they?
How firm Eternity must look To crumbling men like me The only Adamant Estate In all Identity - How mighty to the insecure
Our lives are Swiss— So still—so Cool— Till some odd afternoon The Alps neglect their Curtains And we look farther on!
A little Madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King, But God be with the Clown - Who ponders this tremendous scene… This whole Experiment of Green -
Some Days retired from the rest In soft distinction lie The Day that a Companion came Or was obliged to die