#AmericanWriters
719 A South Wind—has a pathos Of individual Voice— As One detect on Landings An Emigrant’s address.
673 The Love a Life can show Below Is but a filament, I know, Of that diviner thing That faints upon the face of Noon…
874 They won’t frown always—some sweet… When I forget to tease— They’ll recollect how cold I look… And how I just said “Please.”
Before you thought of spring, Except as a surmise, You see, God bless his suddenness… A fellow in the skies Of independent hues,
266 This—is the land—the Sunset washe… These—are the Banks of the Yellow… Where it rose—or whither it rushes… These—are the Western Mystery!
460 I know where Wells grow’—Droughtl… Deep dug’—for Summer days’— Where Mosses go no more away’— And Pebble’—safely plays’—
Had we our senses But perhaps ’tis well they’re not… So intimate with Madness He’s liable with them Had we the eyes without our Head—
604 Unto my Books’—so good to turn’— Far ends of tired Days’— It half endears the Abstinence’— And Pain’—is missed’—in Praise’—
XIV SOME things that fly there be,— Birds, hours, the bumble-bee: Of these no elegy. Some things that stay there be,—
277 What if I say I shall not wait! What if I burst the fleshly Gate— And pass escaped—to thee! What if I file this Mortal—off—
600 It troubled me as once I was— For I was once a Child— Concluding how an Atom—fell— And yet the Heavens—held—
Whether they have forgotten Or are forgetting now Or never remembered - Safer not to know - Miseries of conjecture
685 Not “Revelation”—'tis—that waits, But our unfurnished eyes—
My cocoon tightens, colors tease, I’m feeling for the air; A dim capacity for wings Degrades the dress I wear. A power of butterfly must be
Delight becomes pictorial When viewed through pain,— More fair, because impossible That any gain. The mountaln at a given distance