#AmericanWriters
Her final summer was it, And yet we guessed it not; If tenderer industriousness Pervaded her, we thought A further force of life
904 Had I not This, or This, I said, Appealing to Myself, In moment of prosperity— Inadequate—were Life—
132 I bring an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching Next to mine, And summon them to drink;
54 If I should die, And you should live— And time should gurgle on— And morn should beam—
949 Under the Light, yet under, Under the Grass and the Dirt, Under the Beetle’s Cellar Under the Clover’s Root,
252 I can wade Grief— Whole Pools of it— I’m used to that— But the least push of Joy
God permit industrious angels Afternoons to play. I met one,—forgot my school-mates, All, for him, straightaway. God calls home the angels promptly
Not “Revelation”—'tis—that waits, But our unfurnished eyes—
641 Size circumscribes—it has no room For petty furniture— The Giant tolerates no Gnat For Ease of Gianture—
His Heart was darker than the sta… For that there is a morn But in this black Receptacle Can be no Bode of Dawn
STEP lightly on this narrow spot… The broadest land that grows Is not so ample as the breast These emerald seams enclose. Step lofty; for this name is told
562 Conjecturing a Climate Of unsuspended Suns— Adds poignancy to Winter— The Shivering Fancy turns
He fumbles at your spirit As players at the keys Before they drop full music on; He stuns you by degrees, Prepares your brittle substance
Tell all the Truth but tell it sl… Success in Circuit lies Too bright for our infirm Delight The Truth’s superb surprise As Lightning to the Children ease…
151 Mute thy Coronation— Meek my Vive le roi, Fold a tiny courtier In thine Ermine, Sir,