#AmericanWriters
How slow the Wind - how slow the sea - how late their Fathers be!
509 If anybody’s friend be dead It’s sharpest of the theme The thinking how they walked alive… At such and such a time—
Shall I take thee, the Poet said To the propounded word? Be stationed with the Candidates Till I have finer tried— The Poet searched Philology
894 Of Consciousness, her awful Mate The Soul cannot be rid— As easy the secreting her Behind the Eyes of God.
620 It makes no difference abroad— The Seasons—fit—the same— The Mornings blossom into Noons— And split their Pods of Flame—
695 As if the Sea should part And show a further Sea— And that—a further—and the Three But a presumption be—
990 Not all die early, dying young— Maturity of Fate Is consummated equally In Ages, or a Night—
It stole along so stealthy Suspicion it was done Was dim as to the wealthy Beginning not to own -
DEAR March, come in! How glad I am! I looked for you before. Put down your hat— You must have walked—
149 She went as quiet as the Dew From an Accustomed flower. Not like the Dew, did she return At the Accustomed hour!
514 Her smile was shaped like other sm… The Dimples ran along— And still it hurt you, as some Bi… Did hoist herself, to sing,
669 No Romance sold unto Could so enthrall a Man As the perusal of His Individual One—
106 The Daisy follows soft the Sun— And when his golden walk is done— Sits shyly at his feet— He—waking—finds the flower there—
349 I had the Glory—that will do— An Honor, Thought can turn her to When lesser Fames invite— With one long “Nay”—
335 ’Tis not that Dying hurts us so— ’Tis Living—hurts us more— But Dying—is a different way— A Kind behind the Door—