#AmericanWriters
539 The Province of the Saved Should be the Art—To save— Through Skill obtained in Themsel… The Science of the Grave
912 Peace is a fiction of our Faith— The Bells a Winter Night Bearing the Neighbor out of Sound That never did alight.
450 Dreams—are well—but Waking’s bett… If One wake at morn— If One wake at Midnight—better— Dreaming—of the Dawn—
684 Best Gains’—must have the Losses’… To constitute them’—Gains’—
773 Deprived of other Banquet, I entertained Myself— At first—a scant nutrition— An insufficient Loaf—
Revolution is the Pod Systems rattle from When the Winds of Will are stirre… Excellent is Bloom But except its Russet Base
XIX PAIN has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not.
828 The Robin is the One That interrupt the Morn With hurried—few—express Reports When March is scarcely on—
627 The Tint I cannot take—is best— The Color too remote That I could show it in Bazaar— A Guinea at a sight—
To die—takes just a little while— They say it doesn’t hurt— It’s only fainter—by degrees— And then—it’s out of sight— A darker Ribbon—for a Day—
849 The good Will of a Flower The Man who would possess Must first present Certificate
212 Least Rivers—docile to some sea. My Caspian—thee.
A great Hope fell You heard no noise The Ruin was within Oh cunning wreck that told no tale And let no Witness in
Immured in Heaven! What a Cell! Let every Bondage be, Thou sweetest of the Universe, Like that which ravished thee!
250 I shall keep singing! Birds will pass me On their way to Yellower Climes— Each—with a Robin’s expectation—