#AmericanWriters
The show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to me My neighbor be. Fair play—
Because I could not stop for Deat… He kindly stopped for me– The Carriage held but just Oursel… And Immortality. We slowly drove– He knew no haste
682 ‘Twould ease—a Butterfly— Elate—a Bee— Thou’rt neither— Neither—thy capacity—
871 The Sun and Moon must make their… The Stars express around For in the Zones of Paradise The Lord alone is burned—
637 The Child’s faith is new— Whole—like His Principle— Wide—like the Sunrise On fresh Eyes—
874 They won’t frown always—some sweet… When I forget to tease— They’ll recollect how cold I look… And how I just said “Please.”
A Coffin’—is a small Domain, Yet able to contain A Citizen of Paradise In it diminished Plane. A Grave’—is a restricted Breadth’…
Glory is that bright tragic thing That for an instant Means Dominion - Warms some poor name That never felt the Sun,
923 How the Waters closed above Him We shall never know— How He stretched His Anguish to… That—is covered too—
805 This Bauble was preferred of Bees… By Butterflies admired At Heavenly—Hopeless Distances— Was justified of Bird—
424 Removed from Accident of Loss By Accident of Gain Befalling not my simple Days— Myself had just to earn—
38 By such and such an offering To Mr. So and So, The web of live woven— So martyrs albums show!
826 Love reckons by itself—alone— “As large as I”—relate the Sun To One who never felt it blaze— Itself is all the like it has—
46 I keep my pledge. I was not called— Death did not notice me. I bring my Rose.
347 When Night is almost done— And Sunrise grows so near That we can touch the Spaces— It’s time to smooth the Hair—
