#AmericanWriters
344 ’Twas the old—road—through pain— That unfrequented—One— With many a turn—and thorn— That stops—at Heaven—
876 It was a Grave, yet bore no Stone Enclosed ’twas not of Rail A Consciousness its Acre, and It held a Human Soul.
57 To venerate the simple days Which lead the seasons by, Needs but to remember That from you or I,
439 Undue Significance a starving man… To Food— Far off—He sighs—and therefore—Ho… And therefore—Good—
Let me not mar that perfect Dream By an Auroral stain But so adjust my daily Night That it will come again. Not when we know, the Power accos…
252 I can wade Grief— Whole Pools of it— I’m used to that— But the least push of Joy
Of Brussels—it was not— Of Kidderminster? Nay— The Winds did buy it of the Woods… They—sold it unto me It was a gentle price—
Publication—is the Auction Of the Mind of Man— Poverty—be justifying For so foul a thing Possibly—but We—would rather
Apparently with no surprise, To any happy flower, The frost beheads it at its play, In accidental power. The blond assassin passes on.
752 So the Eyes accost’—and sunder In an Audience’— Stamped’—occasionally’—forever’— So may Countenance
729 Alter! When the Hills do— Falter! When the Sun Question if His Glory Be the Perfect One—
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—
58 Delayed till she had ceased to kno… Delayed till in its vest of snow Her loving bosom lay— An hour behind the fleeting breath…
6 Frequently the wood are pink— Frequently are brown. Frequently the hills undress Behind my native town.
698 Life—is what we make of it— Death—we do not know— Christ’s acquaintance with Him Justify Him—though—