#AmericanWriters
Too cold is this To warm with Sun - Too stiff to bended be, To joint this Agate were a work - Outstaring Masonry -
113 Our share of night to bear— Our share of morning— Our blank in bliss to fill Our blank in scorning—
577 If I may have it, when it’s dead, I’ll be contented—so— If just as soon as Breath is out It shall belong to me—
That only lasts an hour How much '— how little '— is Within our power
212 Least Rivers—docile to some sea. My Caspian—thee.
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—
912 Peace is a fiction of our Faith— The Bells a Winter Night Bearing the Neighbor out of Sound That never did alight.
498 I envy Seas, whereon He rides— I envy Spokes of Wheels Of Chariots, that Him convey— I envy Crooked Hills
XL I NEVER lost as much but twice, And that was in the sod; Twice have I stood a beggar Before the door of God!
Not with a club, the Heart is bro… Nor with a stone; A whip, so small you could not see… I’ve known To lash the magic creature
414 ’Twas like a Maelstrom, with a no… That nearer, every Day, Kept narrowing its boiling Wheel Until the Agony
The going from a world we know To one a wonder still Is like the child’s adversity Whose vista is a hill, Behind the hill is sorcery
550 I cross till I am weary A Mountain—in my mind— More Mountains—then a Sea— More Seas—And then
652 A Prison gets to be a friend— Between its Ponderous face And Ours—a Kinsmanship express— And in its narrow Eyes—
464 The power to be true to You, Until upon my face The Judgment push his Picture— Presumptuous of Your Place—