#AmericanWriters
LXXXII THERE’S a certain slant of ligh… On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes.
657 I dwell in Possibility— A fairer House than Prose— More numerous of Windows— Superior—for Doors—
843 I made slow Riches but my Gain Was steady as the Sun And every Night, it numbered more Than the preceding One
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?
Warm in her Hand these accents li… While faithful and afar The Grace so awkward for her sake Its fond subjection wear -
Who were “the Father and the Son” We pondered when a child, And what had they to do with us And when portentous told With inference appalling
105 To hang our head—ostensibly— And subsequent, to find That such was not the posture Of our immortal mind—
336 The face I carry with me’—last’— When I go out of Time’— To take my Rank’—by’—in the West’… That face’—will just be thine’—
564 My period had come for Prayer— No other Art—would do— My Tactics missed a rudiment— Creator—Was it you?
Epigram THIS is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,— The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty.
983 Ideals are the Fairly Oil With which we help the Wheel But when the Vital Axle turns The Eye rejects the Oil.
656 The name—of it—is “Autumn”— The hue—of it—is Blood— An Artery—upon the Hill— A Vein—along the Road—
224 I've nothing else—to bring, You k… So I keep bringing These— Just as the Night keeps fetching… To our familiar eyes—
637 The Child’s faith is new— Whole—like His Principle— Wide—like the Sunrise On fresh Eyes—
LV I envy seas whereon he rides, I envy spokes of wheels Of chariots that him convey, I envy speechless hills