#AmericanWriters
A chilly Peace infests the Grass The Sun respectful lies - Not any Trance of industry These shadows scrutinize - Whose Allies go no more astray
XVIII READ, sweet, how others strove, Till we are stouter; What they renounced, Till we are less afraid;
31 Summer for thee, grant I may be When Summer days are flown! Thy music still, when Whipporwill And Oriole—are done!
Not with a club, the Heart is bro… Nor with a stone; A whip, so small you could not see… I’ve known To lash the magic creature
908 ’Tis Sunrise—Little Maid—Hast T… No Station in the Day? ’Twas not thy wont, to hinder so— Retrieve thine industry—
9 Through lane it lay—through brambl… Through clearing and through wood— Banditti often passed us Upon the lonely road.
XLVII IS Heaven a physician? They say that He can heal; But medicine posthumous Is unavailable.
Perhaps I asked too large— I take—no less than skies— For Earths, grow thick as Berries, in my native town— My Basked holds—just—Firmaments—
87 A darting fear—a pomp—a tear— A waking on a morn To find that what one waked for, Inhales the different dawn.
So proud she was to die It made us all ashamed That what we cherished, so unknown To her desire seemed. So satisfied to go
281 ’Tis so appalling—it exhilarates— So over Horror, it half Captivate… The Soul stares after it, secure— A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more…
814 One Day is there of the Series Termed Thanksgiving Day. Celebrated part at Table Part in Memory.
707 The Grace—Myself—might not obtain… Confer upon My flower— Refracted but a Countenance— For I—inhabit Her—
There’s a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons— That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes— Heavenly Hurt, it gives us—
LXXXIX A WORD is dead When it is said, Some say. I say it just