#AmericanWriters
169 In Ebon Box, when years have flow… To reverently peer, Wiping away the velvet dust Summers have sprinkled there!
A Word dropped careless on a Page May stimulate an eye When folded in perpetual seam The Wrinkled Maker lie Infection in the sentence breeds
424 Removed from Accident of Loss By Accident of Gain Befalling not my simple Days— Myself had just to earn—
215 What is – “Paradise” – Who live there – Are they “Farmers” – Do they “hoe” –
You said that I “was Great”'—one… Then “Great” it be’—if that pleas… Or Small’—or any size at all’— Nay’—I’m the size suit Thee’— Tall’—like the Stag’—would that?
HE preached upon “breadth” till i… The broad are too broad to define: And of “truth” until it proclaimed… The truth never flaunted a sign. Simplicity fled from his counterfe…
188 Make me a picture of the sun— So I can hang it in my room— And make believe I’m getting warm When others call it “Day”!
22 All these my banners be. I sow my pageantry In May— It rises train by train—
909 I make His Crescent fill or lack— His Nature is at Full Or Quarter—as I signify— His Tides—do I control—
408 Unit, like Death, for Whom? True, like the Tomb, Who tells no secret Told to Him—
Good night! which put the candle o… A jealous zephyr, not a doubt. Ah! friend, you little knew How long at that celestial wick The angels labored diligent;
975 The Mountain sat upon the Plain In his tremendous Chair— His observation omnifold, His inquest, everywhere—
252 I can wade Grief— Whole Pools of it— I’m used to that— But the least push of Joy
616 I rose—because He sank— I thought it would be opposite— But when his power dropped— My Soul grew straight.
902 The first Day that I was a Life I recollect it—How still— That last Day that I was a Life I recollect it—as well—