#AmericanWriters
63 If pain for peace prepares Lo, what “Augustan” years Our feet await! If springs from winter rise,
The Devil—had he fidelity Would be the best friend— Because he has ability— But Devils cannot mend— Perfidy is the virtue
825 An Hour is a Sea Between a few, and me— With them would Harbor be—
19 A sepal, petal, and a thorn Upon a common summer’s morn— A flask of Dew—A Bee or two— A Breeze—a caper in the trees—
6 Frequently the wood are pink— Frequently are brown. Frequently the hills undress Behind my native town.
112 Where bells no more affright the m… Where scrabble never comes— Where very nimble Gentlemen Are forced to keep their rooms—
CXXVIII I heard a fly buzz when I died; The stillness round my form Was like the stillness in the air Between the heaves of storm.
713 Fame of Myself, to justify, All other Plaudit be Superfluous—An Incense Beyond Necessity—
870 Finding is the first Act The second, loss, Third, Expedition for The “Golden Fleece”
588 I cried at Pity—not at Pain— I heard a Woman say “Poor Child”—and something in her… Convicted me—of me—
614 In falling Timbers buried— There breathed a Man— Outside—the spades—were plying— The Lungs—within—
655 Without this—there is nought— All other Riches be As is the Twitter of a Bird— Heard opposite the Sea—
642 Me from Myself — to banish — Had I Art — Impregnable my Fortress Unto All Heart —
940 On that dear Frame the Years had… Yet precious as the House In which We first experienced Lig… The Witnessing, to Us—
169 In Ebon Box, when years have flow… To reverently peer, Wiping away the velvet dust Summers have sprinkled there!