#AmericanWriters
491 While it is alive Until Death touches it While it and I lap one Air Dwell in one Blood
188 Make me a picture of the sun— So I can hang it in my room— And make believe I’m getting warm When others call it “Day”!
588 I cried at Pity—not at Pain— I heard a Woman say “Poor Child”—and something in her… Convicted me—of me—
It sounded as if the Streets were… And then– the Streets stood stil… Eclipse - was all we could see at… And Awe - was all we could feel. By and by - the boldest stole out…
599 There is a pain’—so utter’— It swallows substance up’— Then covers the Abyss with Trance… So Memory can step
Nature the gentlest mother is, Impatient of no child, The feeblest of the waywardest. Her admonition mild In forest and the hill
Out of sight? What of that? See the Bird —reach it! Curve by Curve —Sweep by Sweep — Round the Steep Air — Danger! What is that to Her?
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,
384 No Rack can torture me— My Soul—at Liberty— Behind this mortal Bone There knits a bolder One—
The Grass so little has to do— A Sphere of simple Green— With only Butterflies to brood And Bees to entertain— And stir all day to pretty Tunes
643 I could suffice for Him, I knew— He—could suffice for Me— Yet Hesitating Fractions—Both Surveyed Infinity—
867 Escaping backward to perceive The Sea upon our place— Escaping forward, to confront His glittering Embrace—
437 Prayer is the little implement Through which Men reach Where Presence—is denied them. They fling their Speech
30 Adrift! A little boat adrift! And night is coming down! Will no one guide a little boat Unto the nearest town?
XIII THE soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more.