#AmericanWriters
780 The Truth — is stirless — Other force — may be presumed to m… This — then — is best for confiden… When oldest Cedars swerve —
22 All these my banners be. I sow my pageantry In May— It rises train by train—
153 Dust is the only Secret— Death, the only One You cannot find out all about In his “native town.”
A toad can die of light! Death is the common right Of toads and men,— Of earl and midge The privilege.
851 When the Astronomer stops seeking For his Pleiad’s Face— When the lone British Lady Forsakes the Arctic Race
105 To hang our head—ostensibly— And subsequent, to find That such was not the posture Of our immortal mind—
715 The World—feels Dusty When We stop to Die— We want the Dew—then— Honors—taste dry—
551 There is a Shame of Nobleness— Confronting Sudden Pelf— A finer Shame of Ecstasy— Convicted of Itself—
50 I haven’t told my garden yet— Lest that should conquer me. I haven’t quite the strength now To break it to the Bee—
165 A Wounded Deer—leaps highest— I’ve heard the Hunter tell— ’Tis but the Ecstasy of death— And then the Brake is still!
498 I envy Seas, whereon He rides— I envy Spokes of Wheels Of Chariots, that Him convey— I envy Crooked Hills
867 Escaping backward to perceive The Sea upon our place— Escaping forward, to confront His glittering Embrace—
Before you thought of spring, Except as a surmise, You see, God bless his suddenness… A fellow in the skies Of independent hues,
991 She sped as Petals of a Rose Offended by the Wind— A frail Aristocrat of Time Indemnity to find—
627 The Tint I cannot take—is best— The Color too remote That I could show it in Bazaar— A Guinea at a sight—