#AmericanWriters
206 The Flower must not blame the Bee… That seeketh his felicity Too often at her door— But teach the Footman from Vevay—
969 He who in Himself believes— Fraud cannot presume— Faith is Constancy’s Result— And assumes—from Home—
Part One: Life XXXV I CAN wade grief, Whole pools of it,— I ’m used to that.
749 All but Death, can be Adjusted— Dynasties repaired— Systems—settled in their Sockets— Citadels—dissolved—
643 I could suffice for Him, I knew— He—could suffice for Me— Yet Hesitating Fractions—Both Surveyed Infinity—
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—
138 Pigmy seraphs’—gone astray’— Velvet people from Vevay’— Balles from some lost summer day’— Bees exclusive Coterie’—
323 As if I asked a common Alms, And in my wondering hand A Stranger pressed a Kingdom, And I, bewildered, stand—
Of Brussels—it was not— Of Kidderminster? Nay— The Winds did buy it of the Woods… They—sold it unto me It was a gentle price—
292 If your Nerve, deny you— Go above your Nerve— He can lean against the Grave, If he fear to swerve—
752 So the Eyes accost’—and sunder In an Audience’— Stamped’—occasionally’—forever’— So may Countenance
The Savior must have been A docile Gentleman— To come so far so cold a Day For little Fellowmen— The Road to Bethlehem
348 I would not paint — a picture — I'd rather be the One It's bright impossibility To dwell — delicious — on —
312 Her—“last Poems”— Poets—ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled other,
246 Forever at His side to walk— The smaller of the two! Brain of His Brain— Blood of His Blood—