#AmericanWriters
It’s like the light,— A fashionless delight It’s like the bee,— A dateless melody. It’s like the woods,
879 Each Second is the last Perhaps, recalls the Man Just measuring unconsciousness The Sea and Spar between.
300 ‘Morning’—means 'Milking’—to the… Dawn’—to the Teneriffe’— Dice’—to the Maid’— Morning means just Risk’—to the L…
578 The Body grows without— The more convenient way— That if the Spirit—like to hide Its Temple stands, alway,
Departed to the judgment, A mighty afternoon; Great clouds like ushers leaning, Creation looking on. The flesh surrendered, cancelled
586 We talked as Girls do— Fond, and late— We speculated fair, on every subje… Of ours, none affair—
338 I know that He exists. Somewhere—in Silence— He has hid his rare life From our gross eyes.
395 Reverse cannot befall That fine Prosperity Whose Sources are interior— As soon—Adversity
A Coffin’—is a small Domain, Yet able to contain A Citizen of Paradise In it diminished Plane. A Grave’—is a restricted Breadth’…
971 Robbed by Death—but that was easy… To the failing Eye I could hold the latest Glowing— Robbed by Liberty
755 No Bobolink—reverse His Singing When the only Tree Ever He minded occupying By the Farmer be—
There is no frigate like a book To take us lands away, Nor any coursers like a page Of prancing poetry. This traverse may the poorest take
902 The first Day that I was a Life I recollect it—How still— That last Day that I was a Life I recollect it—as well—
858 This Chasm, Sweet, upon my life I mention it to you, When Sunrise through a fissure dr… The Day must follow too.
321 Of all the Sounds despatched abro… There’s not a Charge to me Like that old measure in the Boug… That phraseless Melody—