#AmericanWriters
Whose Pink career may have a clos… Portentous as our own, who knows? To imitate these Neighbors fleet In awe and innocence, were meet.
685 Not “Revelation”—'tis—that waits, But our unfurnished eyes—
667 Bloom upon the Mountain’—stated’— Blameless of a Name’— Efflorescence of a Sunset’— Reproduced’—the same’—
329 So glad we are’—a Stranger’d deem ’Twas sorry, that we were’— For where the Holiday should be There publishes a Tear’—
Death sets a thing significant The eye had hurried by, Except a perished creature Entreat us tenderly To ponder little workmanships
483 A Solemn thing within the Soul To feel itself get ripe— And golden hang—while farther up— The Maker’s Ladders stop—
The words the happy say Are paltry melody But those the silent feel Are beautiful—
767 To offer brave assistance To Lives that stand alone— When One has failed to stop them— Is Human—but Divine
‘Faith’ is a fine invention When Gentlemen can see’— But Microscopes are prudent In an Emergency.
312 Her—“last Poems”— Poets—ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled other,
XIX PAIN has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not.
55 By Chivalries as tiny, A Blossom, or a Book, The seeds of smiles are planted— Which blossom in the dark.
35 Nobody knows this little Rose— It might a pilgrim be Did I not take it from the ways And lift it up to thee.
We don’t cry—Tim and I, We are far too grand— But we bolt the door tight To prevent a friend— Then we hide our brave face
Some Days retired from the rest In soft distinction lie The Day that a Companion came Or was obliged to die