#AmericanWriters
921 If it had no pencil Would it try mine— Worn—now—and dull—sweet, Writing much to thee.
XVIII READ, sweet, how others strove, Till we are stouter; What they renounced, Till we are less afraid;
To see her is a Picture— To hear her is a Tune— To know her an Intemperance As innocent as June— To know her not—Affliction—
821 Away from Home are some and I— An Emigrant to be In a Metropolis of Homes Is easy, possibly—
568 We learned the Whole of Love— The Alphabet—the Words— A Chapter—then the mighty Book— Then—Revelation closed—
787 Such is the Force of Happiness— The Least—can lift a Ton Assisted by its stimulus— Who Misery—sustain—
569 I reckon—when I count at all— First—Poets—Then the Sun— Then Summer—Then the Heaven of G… And then—the List is done—
784 Bereaved of all, I went abroad— No less bereaved was I Upon a New Peninsula— The Grave preceded me—
March is the Month of Expectation… The things we do not know - The Persons of prognostication Are coming now - We try to show becoming firmness -
344 ’Twas the old—road—through pain— That unfrequented—One— With many a turn—and thorn— That stops—at Heaven—
575 “Heaven” has different Signs—to m… Sometimes, I think that Noon Is but a symbol of the Place— And when again, at Dawn,
1763 Fame is a bee. It has a song— It has a sting— Ah, too, it has a wing.
926 Patience’—has a quiet Outer’— Patience’—Look within’— Is an Insect’s futile forces Infinites’—between’—
Love—is that later Thing than Dea… More previous—than Life— Confirms it at its entrance—And Usurps it—of itself— Tastes Death—the first—to hand th…
359 I gained it so— By Climbing slow— By Catching at the Twigs that gro… Between the Bliss—and me—