#AmericanWriters
78 A poor—torn heart—a tattered heart… That sat it down to rest— Nor noticed that the Ebbing Day Flowed silver to the West—
His bill an auger is, His head, a cap and frill. He laboreth at every tree,— A worm his utmost goal.
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—
XXX WE play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool.
September’s Baccalaureate A combination is Of Crickets– Crows– and Retros… And a dissembling Breeze That hints without assuming -
669 No Romance sold unto Could so enthrall a Man As the perusal of His Individual One—
31 Summer for thee, grant I may be When Summer days are flown! Thy music still, when Whipporwill And Oriole—are done!
582 Inconceivably solemn! Things go gay Pierce—by the very Press Of Imagery—
406 Some’—Work for Immortality’— The Chiefer part, for Time’— He’—Compensates’—immediately’— The former’—Checks’—on Fame’—
899 Herein a Blossom lies— A Sepulchre, between— Cross it, and overcome the Bee— Remain—'tis but a Rind.
100 A science—so the Savants say, “Comparative Anatomy”— By which a single bone— Is made a secret to unfold
120 If this is “fading” Oh let me immediately “fade”! If this is “dying” Bury me, in such a shroud of red!
972 Unfulfilled to Observation— Incomplete—to Eye— But to Faith—a Revolution In Locality—
240 Ah, Moon—and Star! You are very far— But were no one Farther than you—
32 When Roses cease to bloom, Sir, And Violets are done— When Bumblebees in solemn flight Have passed beyond the Sun—