#AmericanWriters
831 Dying! To be afraid of thee One must to thine Artillery Have left exposed a Friend— Than thine old Arrow is a Shot
665 Dropped into the Ether Acre— Wearing the Sod Gown— Bonnet of Everlasting Laces— Brooch—frozen on—
608 Afraid! Of whom am I afraid? Not Death—for who is He? The Porter of my Father’s Lodge As much abasheth me!
153 Dust is the only Secret— Death, the only One You cannot find out all about In his “native town.”
For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ectasty. For each beloved hour
293 I got so I could take his name— Without—Tremendous gain— That Stop-sensation—on my Soul— And Thunder—in the Room—
853 When One has given up One’s life The parting with the rest Feels easy, as when Day lets go Entirely the West
Not Sickness stains the Brave, Nor any Dart, Nor Doubt of Scene to come, But an adjourning Heart -
Much Madness is divinest Sense - To a discerning Eye - Much Sense– the starkest Madness… ’Tis the Majority In this, as All, prevail -
232 The Sun’—just touched the Morning… The Morning’—Happy thing’— Supposed that He had come to dwel… And Life would all be Spring!
423 The Months have ends—the Years—a… No Power can untie To stretch a little further A Skein of Misery—
366 Although I put away his life— An Ornament too grand For Forehead low as mine, to wear… This might have been the Hand
799 Despair’s advantage is achieved By suffering—Despair— To be assisted of Reverse One must Reverse have bore—
765 You constituted Time— I deemed Eternity A Revelation of Yourself— ’Twas therefore Deity
’Twas such a little—little boat That toddled down the bay! ’Twas such a gallant—gallant sea That beckoned it away! ’Twas such a greedy, greedy wave