#AmericanWriters
395 Reverse cannot befall That fine Prosperity Whose Sources are interior— As soon—Adversity
Glory is that bright tragic thing That for an instant Means Dominion - Warms some poor name That never felt the Sun,
Publication—is the Auction Of the Mind of Man— Poverty—be justifying For so foul a thing Possibly—but We—would rather
837 How well I knew Her not Whom not to know has been A Bounty in prospective, now Next Door to mine the Pain.
To the bright east she flies, Brothers of Paradise Remit her home, Without a change of wings, Or Love’s convenient things,
707 The Grace—Myself—might not obtain… Confer upon My flower— Refracted but a Countenance— For I—inhabit Her—
976 Death is a Dialogue between The Spirit and the Dust. “Dissolve” says Death—The Spirit… I have another Trust”—
91 So bashful when I spied her! So pretty—so ashamed! So hidden in her leaflets Lest anybody find—
576 I prayed, at first, a little Girl… Because they told me to— But stopped, when qualified to gue… How prayer would feel—to me—
CXXVIII I heard a fly buzz when I died; The stillness round my form Was like the stillness in the air Between the heaves of storm.
Said Death to Passion ‘Give of thine an Acre unto me.’ Said Passion, through contracting… ‘A Thousand Times Thee Nay.’ Bore Death from Passion
916 His Feet are shod with Gauze— His Helmet, is of Gold, His Breast, a Single Onyx With Chrysophrase, inlaid.
646 I think to Live—may be a Bliss To those who dare to try— Beyond my limit to conceive— My lip—to testify—
407 If What we could—were what we wou… Criterion—be small— It is the Ultimate of Talk— The Impotence to Tell—
Could mortal lip divine The undeveloped Freight Of a delivered syllable ‘Twould crumble with the weight.