#AmericanWriters
503 Better—than Music! For I—who hea… I was used—to the Birds—before— This—was different—’Twas Translat… Of all tunes I knew—and more—
It was not death, for I stood up, And all the dead lie down; It was not night, for all the bell… Put out their tongues, for noon. It was not frost, for on my flesh
266 This—is the land—the Sunset washe… These—are the Banks of the Yellow… Where it rose—or whither it rushes… These—are the Western Mystery!
108 Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the Culprit—Life!
388 Take your Heaven further on— This—to Heaven divine Has gone— Had You earlier blundered in Possibly, e’en You had seen
562 Conjecturing a Climate Of unsuspended Suns— Adds poignancy to Winter— The Shivering Fancy turns
Sometimes with the Heart Seldom with the Soul Scarcer once with the Might Few - love at all.
642 Me from Myself — to banish — Had I Art — Impregnable my Fortress Unto All Heart —
976 Death is a Dialogue between The Spirit and the Dust. “Dissolve” says Death—The Spirit… I have another Trust”—
118 My friend attacks my friend! Oh Battle picturesque! Then I turn Soldier too, And he turns Satirist!
Between My Country—and the Other… There is a Sea— But Flowers—negotiate between us— As Ministry.
698 Life—is what we make of it— Death—we do not know— Christ’s acquaintance with Him Justify Him—though—
840 I cannot buy it—’tis not sold— There is no other in the World— Mine was the only one I was so happy I forgot
547 I’ve seen a Dying Eye Run round and round a Room— In search of Something—as it seem… Then Cloudier become—
A light exists in spring Not present on the year At any other period. When March is scarcely here A color stands abroad