#AmericanWriters
671 She dwelleth in the Ground— Where Daffodils—abide— Her Maker—Her Metropolis— The Universe—Her Maid—
We play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool. The shapes, though, were similar,
298 Alone, I cannot be— For Hosts—do visit me— Recordless Company— Who baffle Key—
LVII EXCEPT the heaven had come so n… So seemed to choose my door, The distance would not haunt me so… I had not hoped before.
502 At least—to pray—is left—is left— Oh Jesus—in the Air— I know not which thy chamber is— I’m knocking—everywhere—
Luck is not chance It’s Toil Fortune’s expensive smile Is earned The Father of the Mine
34 Garland for Queens, may be— Laurels—for rare degree Of soul or sword. Ah—but remembering me—
390 It’s coming—the postponeless Crea… It gains the Block—and now—it gai… Chooses its latch, from all the ot… Enters—with a “You know Me—Sir”?
XLVII HEART, we will forget him! You and I, to—night! You may forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light.
1100 The last Night that She lived It was a Common Night Except the Dying—this to Us Made Nature different
It struck me every day The lightning was as new As if the cloud that instant slit And let the fire through. It burned me in the night,
778 This that would greet—an hour ago— Is quaintest Distance—now— Had it a Guest from Paradise— Nor glow, would it, nor bow—
Publication—is the Auction Of the Mind of Man— Poverty—be justifying For so foul a thing Possibly—but We—would rather
203 He forgot—and I—remembered— ’Twas an everyday affair— Long ago as Christ and Peter— “Warmed them” at the “Temple fire…
281 ’Tis so appalling—it exhilarates— So over Horror, it half Captivate… The Soul stares after it, secure— A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more…