#AmericanWriters
408 Unit, like Death, for Whom? True, like the Tomb, Who tells no secret Told to Him—
863 That Distance was between Us That is not of Mile or Main— The Will it is that situates— Equator—never can—
XXVIII I BRING an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching, next to min… And summon them to drink. Crackling with fever, they essay;
477 No Man can compass a Despair— As round a Goalless Road No faster than a Mile at once The Traveller proceed—
A bird came down the walk: He did not know I saw; He bit an angle-worm in halves And ate the fellow, raw. And then he drank a dew
9 Through lane it lay—through brambl… Through clearing and through wood— Banditti often passed us Upon the lonely road.
LV I envy seas whereon he rides, I envy spokes of wheels Of chariots that him convey, I envy speechless hills
169 In Ebon Box, when years have flow… To reverently peer, Wiping away the velvet dust Summers have sprinkled there!
Epigram THIS is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,— The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty.
93 Went up a year this evening! I recollect it well! Amid no bells nor bravoes The bystanders will tell!
354 From Cocoon forth a Butterfly As Lady from her Door Emerged—a Summer Afternoon— Repairing Everywhere—
620 It makes no difference abroad— The Seasons—fit—the same— The Mornings blossom into Noons— And split their Pods of Flame—
Immured in Heaven! What a Cell! Let every Bondage be, Thou sweetest of the Universe, Like that which ravished thee!
962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—
424 Removed from Accident of Loss By Accident of Gain Befalling not my simple Days— Myself had just to earn—