#AmericanWriters
761 From Blank to Blank— A Threadless Way I pushed Mechanic feet— To stop—or perish—or advance—
477 No Man can compass a Despair— As round a Goalless Road No faster than a Mile at once The Traveller proceed—
Part Five: The Single Hound XLIX The duties of the Wind are few— To cast the ships, at Sea, Establish March, the Floods escor…
856 There is a finished feeling Experienced at Graves— A leisure of the Future— A Wilderness of Size.
350 They leave us with the Infinite. But He—is not a man— His fingers are the size of fists— His fists, the size of men—
XVII WHEN night is almost done, And sunrise grows so near That we can touch the spaces, It ’s time to smooth the hair
386 Answer July— Where is the Bee— Where is the Blush— Where is the Hay?
If you were coming in the fall, I’d brush the summer by With half a smile and half a spum, As housewives do a fly. If I could see you in a year,
101 Will there really be a “Morning”? Is there such a thing as “Day”? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they?
139 Soul, Wilt thou toss again? By just such a hazard Hundreds have lost indeed— But tens have won an all—
A Route of Evanescence With a revolving Wheel— A Resonance of Emerald— A Rush of Cochineal— And every Blossom on the Bush
221 It can’t be “Summer”! That—got through! It’s early—yet—for “Spring”! There’s that long town of White—t…
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
169 In Ebon Box, when years have flow… To reverently peer, Wiping away the velvet dust Summers have sprinkled there!
954 The Chemical conviction That Nought be lost Enable in Disaster My fractured Trust—