#AmericanWriters
955 The Hollows round His eager Eyes Were Pages where to read Pathetic Histories—although Himself had not complained.
111 The Bee is not afraid of me. I know the Butterfly. The pretty people in the Woods Receive me cordially—
A Sickness of this World it most… When Best Men die. A Wishfulness their far Condition To occupy. A Chief indifference, as Foreign
My life closed twice before its cl… It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me So huge, so hopeless to conceive
215 What is – “Paradise” – Who live there – Are they “Farmers” – Do they “hoe” –
Silence is all we dread. There’s Ransom in a Voice - But Silence is Infinity. Himself have not a face.
734 If He were living—dare I ask— And how if He be dead— And so around the Words I went— Of meeting them—afraid—
762 The Whole of it came not at once— ’Twas Murder by degrees— A Thrust—and then for Life a chan… The Bliss to cauterize—
502 At least—to pray—is left—is left— Oh Jesus—in the Air— I know not which thy chamber is— I’m knocking—everywhere—
“Sic transit gloria mundi,” “How doth the busy bee,” “Dum vivimus vivamus,” I stay mine enemy! Oh “veni, vidi, vici!”
490 To One denied the drink To tell what Water is Would be acuter, would it not Than letting Him surmise?
208 The Rose did caper on her cheek— Her Bodice rose and fell— Her pretty speech—like drunken men… Did stagger pitiful—
We like March, his shoes are purp… He is new and high; Makes he mud for dog and peddler, Makes he forest dry; Knows the adder’s tongue his comin…
Dying at my music! Bubble! Bubble! Hold me till the Octave’s run! Quick! Burst the Windows! Ritardando!
591 To interrupt His Yellow Plan The Sun does not allow Caprices of the Atmosphere— And even when the Snow