#AmericanWriters
407 If What we could—were what we wou… Criterion—be small— It is the Ultimate of Talk— The Impotence to Tell—
153 Dust is the only Secret— Death, the only One You cannot find out all about In his “native town.”
Elysium is as far as to The very nearest Room If in that Room a Friend await Felicity or Doom— What fortitude the Soul contains
XLVII IS Heaven a physician? They say that He can heal; But medicine posthumous Is unavailable.
XII I ASKED no other thing, No other was denied. I offered Being for it; The mighty merchant smiled.
I like to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step Around a pile of mountains,
18 The Gentian weaves her fringes— The Maple’s loom is red— My departing blossoms Obviate parade.
981 As Sleigh Bells seem in summer Or Bees, at Christmas show— So fairy—so fictitious The individuals do
Part One: Life LI IT tossed and tossed,— A little brig I knew,— O’ertook by blast,
194 On this long storm the Rainbow ro… On this late Morn—the Sun— The clouds—like listless Elephant… Horizons—straggled down—
645 Bereavement in their death to feel Whom We have never seen— A Vital Kinsmanship import Our Soul and theirs—between—
476 I meant to have but modest needs— Such as Content—and Heaven— Within my income—these could lie And Life and I—keep even—
91 So bashful when I spied her! So pretty—so ashamed! So hidden in her leaflets Lest anybody find—
848 Just as He spoke it from his Hand… This Edifice remain— A Turret more, a Turret less Dishonor his Design—
How Human Nature dotes On what it can’t detect. The moment that a Plot is plumbed Prospective is extinct - Prospective is the friend