#AmericanWriters
I noticed People disappeared When but a little child - Supposed they visited remote Or settled Regions wild - But did because they died
Renunciation—is a piercing Virtue… The letting go A Presence—for an Expectation— Not now— The putting out of Eyes—
XIII THE soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more.
903 I hide myself within my flower, That fading from your Vase, You, unsuspecting, feel for me— Almost a loneliness.
114 Good night, because we must, How intricate the dust! I would go, to know! Oh incognito!
137 Flowers—Well—if anybody Can the ecstasy define— Half a transport—half a trouble— With which flowers humble men:
539 The Province of the Saved Should be the Art—To save— Through Skill obtained in Themsel… The Science of the Grave
99 New feet within my garden go— New fingers stir the sod— A Troubadour upon the Elm Betrays the solitude.
566 A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink— I hunted all the Sand— I caught the Dripping of a Rock And bore it in my Hand—
971 Robbed by Death—but that was easy… To the failing Eye I could hold the latest Glowing— Robbed by Liberty
The Mushroom is the Elf of Plant… At Evening, it is not At Morning, in a Truffled Hut It stop opon a Spot As if it tarried always
972 Unfulfilled to Observation— Incomplete—to Eye— But to Faith—a Revolution In Locality—
Perhaps I asked too large— I take—no less than skies— For Earths, grow thick as Berries, in my native town— My Basked holds—just—Firmaments—
LXXXII THERE’S a certain slant of ligh… On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes.
On this wondrous sea Sailing silently, Ho! Pilot, ho! Knowest thou the shore Where no breakers roar—