#AmericanWriters
Not in this world to see his face Sounds long, until I read the pla… Where this is said to be But just the primer to a life Unopened, rare, upon the shelf,
IX THE heart asks pleasure first, And then, excuse from pain; And then, those little anodynes That deaden suffering;
215 What is – “Paradise” – Who live there – Are they “Farmers” – Do they “hoe” –
Publication—is the Auction Of the Mind of Man— Poverty—be justifying For so foul a thing Possibly—but We—would rather
496 As far from pity, as complaint— As cool to speech—as stone— As numb to Revelation As if my Trade were Bone—
224 I've nothing else—to bring, You k… So I keep bringing These— Just as the Night keeps fetching… To our familiar eyes—
588 I cried at Pity—not at Pain— I heard a Woman say “Poor Child”—and something in her… Convicted me—of me—
I know a place where summer strive… With such a practised frost, She each year leads her daisies ba… Recording briefly, ‘Lost.’ But when the south wind stirs the…
An Antiquated Tree Is cherished of the Crow Because that Junior Foliage is di… To venerable Birds Whose Corporation Coat
587 Empty my Heart, of Thee— Its single Artery— Begin, and leave Thee out— Simply Extinction’s Date—
845 Be Mine the Doom— Sufficient Fame— To perish in Her Hand!
999 Superfluous were the Sun When Excellence be dead He were superfluous every Day For every Day be said
140 An altered look about the hills— A Tyrian light the village fills— A wider sunrise in the morn— A deeper twilight on the lawn—
HE preached upon “breadth” till i… The broad are too broad to define: And of “truth” until it proclaimed… The truth never flaunted a sign. Simplicity fled from his counterfe…
Death is like the insect Menacing the tree, Competent to kill it, But decoyed may be. Bait it with the balsam,