#AmericanWriters
45 There’s something quieter than sle… Within this inner room! It wears a sprig upon its breast— And will not tell its name.
343 My Reward for Being, was This. My premium—My Bliss— An Admiralty, less— A Sceptre—penniless—
My Life had stood—a Loaded Gun— In Corners—till a Day The Owner passed—identified— And carried Me away— And now We roam in Sovereign Woo…
220 Could I—then—shut the door— Lest my beseeching face—at last— Rejected—be—of Her?
688 “Speech”—is a prank of Parliament… “Tears”—is a trick of the nerve— But the Heart with the heaviest f… Doesn't—always—move—
Air has no Residence, no Neighbor… No Ear, no Door, No Apprehension of Another Oh, Happy Air! Ethereal Guest at e’en an Outcast…
724 It’s easy to invent a Life— God does it—every Day— Creation—but the Gambol Of His Authority—
I saw the wind within her I knew it blew for me '— But she must buy my shelter I asked Humility
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,
422 More Life—went out—when He went Than Ordinary Breath— Lit with a finer Phosphor— Requiring in the Quench—
171 Wait till the Majesty of Death Invests so mean a brow! Almost a powdered Footman Might dare to touch it now!
The grave my little cottage is, Where 'Keeping house’ for thee I make my parlor orderly And lay the marble tea. For two divided, briefly,
78 A poor—torn heart—a tattered heart… That sat it down to rest— Nor noticed that the Ebbing Day Flowed silver to the West—
300 ‘Morning’—means 'Milking’—to the… Dawn’—to the Teneriffe’— Dice’—to the Maid’— Morning means just Risk’—to the L…
404 How many Flowers fail in Wood— Or perish from the Hill— Without the privilege to know That they are Beautiful—