#AmericanWriters
761 From Blank to Blank— A Threadless Way I pushed Mechanic feet— To stop—or perish—or advance—
To mend each tattered Faith There is a needle fair Though no appearance indicate ’Tis threaded in the Air And though it do not wear
LXXXII THERE’S a certain slant of ligh… On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes.
457 Sweet—safe—Houses—Glad—gay—House… Sealed so stately tight— Lids of Steel—on Lids of Marble— Locking Bare feet out—
594 The Battle fought between the Sou… And No Man—is the One Of all the Battles prevalent— By far the Greater One—
A feather from the Whippoorwill That everlasting—sings! Whose galleries—are Sunrise— Whose Opera—the Springs— Whose Emerald Nest the Ages spin
889 Crisis is a Hair Toward which the forces creep Past which forces retrograde If it come in sleep
198 An awful Tempest mashed the air— The clouds were gaunt, and few— A Black—as of a Spectre’s Cloak Hid Heaven and Earth from view.
76 Exultation is the going Of an inland soul to sea, Past the houses—past the headlands… Into deep Eternity—
599 There is a pain’—so utter’— It swallows substance up’— Then covers the Abyss with Trance… So Memory can step
62 “Sown in dishonor”! Ah! Indeed! May this “dishonor” be? If I were half so fine myself
637 The Child’s faith is new— Whole—like His Principle— Wide—like the Sunrise On fresh Eyes—
XXX WE play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool.
268 Me, change! Me, alter! Then I will, when on the Everlast… A Smaller Purple grows— At sunset, or a lesser glow
453 Love — thou art high — I cannot climb thee — But, were it Two — Who knows but we —