#AmericanWriters
233 The Lamp burns sure—within— Tho’ Serfs—supply the Oil— It matters not the busy Wick— At her phosphoric toil!
“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?
XXVIII I BRING an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching, next to min… And summon them to drink. Crackling with fever, they essay;
XXIII A bird came down the walk: He did not know I saw; He bit an angle-worm in halves And ate the fellow, raw.
412 I read my sentence—steadily— Reviewed it with my eyes, To see that I made no mistake In its extremest clause—
690 Victory comes late— And is held low to freezing lips— Too rapt with frost To take it—
384 No Rack can torture me— My Soul—at Liberty— Behind this mortal Bone There knits a bolder One—
877 Each Scar I’ll keep for Him Instead I’ll say of Gem In His long Absence worn A Costlier one
Come slowly, Eden Lips unused to thee. Bashful, sip thy jasmines, As the fainting bee,
Not Sickness stains the Brave, Nor any Dart, Nor Doubt of Scene to come, But an adjourning Heart -
621 I asked no other thing— No other—was denied— I offered Being—for it— The Mighty Merchant sneered—
827 The Only News I know Is Bulletins all Day From Immortality. The Only Shows I see—
964 “Unto Me?” I do not know you— Where may be your House? “I am Jesus—Late of Judea— Now—of Paradise”—
847 Finite’—to fail, but infinite to… For the one ship that struts the s… Many’s the gallant’—overwhelmed C… Nodding in Navies nevermore’—
661 Could I but ride indefinite As doth the Meadow Bee And visit only where I liked And No one visit me