#AmericanWriters
These Fevered Days—to take them t… Where Waters cool around the moss… And shade is all that devastates t… Seems it sometimes this would be a…
Glory is that bright tragic thing That for an instant Means Dominion - Warms some poor name That never felt the Sun,
310 Give little Anguish— Lives will fret— Give Avalanches— And they’ll slant—
Perhaps I asked too large— I take—no less than skies— For Earths, grow thick as Berries, in my native town— My Basked holds—just—Firmaments—
669 No Romance sold unto Could so enthrall a Man As the perusal of His Individual One—
13 Sleep is supposed to be By souls of sanity The shutting of the eye. Sleep is the station grand
525 I think the Hemlock likes to stan… Upon a Marge of Snow— It suits his own Austerity— And satisfies an awe
312 Her—“last Poems”— Poets—ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled other,
Water makes many Beds For those averse to sleep - Its awful chamber open stands - Its Curtains blandly sweep - Abhorrent is the Rest
It’s like the light,— A fashionless delight It’s like the bee,— A dateless melody. It’s like the woods,
224 I've nothing else—to bring, You k… So I keep bringing These— Just as the Night keeps fetching… To our familiar eyes—
493 The World—stands—solemner—to me— Since I was wed—to Him— A modesty befits the soul That bears another’s—name—
308 I send Two Sunsets— Day and I—in competition ran— I finished Two—and several Stars— While He—was making One—
403 The Winters are so short— I’m hardly justified In sending all the Birds away— And moving into Pod—
Death leaves Us homesick, who beh… Except that it is gone Are ignorant of its Concern As if it were not born. Through all their former Places,…