#AmericanWriters
350 They leave us with the Infinite. But He—is not a man— His fingers are the size of fists— His fists, the size of men—
820 All Circumstances are the Frame In which His Face is set— All Latitudes exist for His Sufficient Continent—
Not any sunny tone From any fervent zone Find entrance there - Better a grave of Balm Toward human nature’s home -
267 Did we disobey Him? Just one time! Charged us to forget Him— But we couldn’t learn!
964 “Unto Me?” I do not know you— Where may be your House? “I am Jesus—Late of Judea— Now—of Paradise”—
Is it too late to touch you, Dear… We this moment knew - Love Marine and Love terrene - Love celestial too -
805 This Bauble was preferred of Bees… By Butterflies admired At Heavenly—Hopeless Distances— Was justified of Bird—
‘And with what body do they come?’… Then they do come - Rejoice! What Door– What Hour– Run– ru… Illuminate the House! ‘Body!’ Then real– a Face and E…
549 That I did always love I bring thee Proof That till I loved I never lived—Enough—
366 Although I put away his life— An Ornament too grand For Forehead low as mine, to wear… This might have been the Hand
XXXIII DARE you see a soul at the white… Then crouch within the door. Red is the fire’s common tint; But when the vivid ore
We don’t cry—Tim and I, We are far too grand— But we bolt the door tight To prevent a friend— Then we hide our brave face
1763 Fame is a bee. It has a song— It has a sting— Ah, too, it has a wing.
773 Deprived of other Banquet, I entertained Myself— At first—a scant nutrition— An insufficient Loaf—
545 ’Tis One by One—the Father count… And then a Tract between Set Cypherless—to teach the Eye The Value of its Ten—