#AmericanWriters
’Twas Crisis—All the length had p… That dull—benumbing time There is in Fever or Event— And now the Chance had come— The instant holding in its claw
808 So set its Sun in Thee What Day be dark to me— What Distance—far— So I the Ships may see
432 Do People moulder equally, They bury, in the Grave? I do believe a Species As positively live
312 Her—“last Poems”— Poets—ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled other,
182 If I shouldn’t be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb.
29 If those I loved were lost The Crier’s voice would tell me— If those I loved were found The bells of Ghent would ring—
How lonesome the Wind must feel N… When people have put out the Ligh… And everything that has an Inn Closes the shutter and goes in— How pompous the Wind must feel No…
25 She slept beneath a tree— Remembered but by me. I touched her Cradle mute— She recognized the foot—
997 Crumbling is not an instant’s Act A fundamental pause Dilapidation’s processes Are organized Decays.
949 Under the Light, yet under, Under the Grass and the Dirt, Under the Beetle’s Cellar Under the Clover’s Root,
460 I know where Wells grow’—Droughtl… Deep dug’—for Summer days’— Where Mosses go no more away’— And Pebble’—safely plays’—
198 An awful Tempest mashed the air— The clouds were gaunt, and few— A Black—as of a Spectre’s Cloak Hid Heaven and Earth from view.
472 Except the Heaven had come so nea… So seemed to choose My Door— The Distance would not haunt me s… I had not hoped—before—
232 The Sun—just touched the Morning— The Morning—Happy thing— Supposed that He had come to dwel… And Life would all be Spring!
243 I’ve known a Heaven, like a Tent— To wrap its shining Yards— Pluck up its stakes, and disappear… Without the sound of Boards