#AmericanWriters
The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,— The sweeping up the heart,
368 How sick—to wait—in any place—but… I knew last night—when someone tri… Thinking—perhaps—that I looked ti… Or breaking—almost—with unspoken p…
66 So from the mould Scarlet and Gold Many a Bulb will rise— Hidden away, cunningly, From saga…
334 All the letters I can write Are not fair as this— Syllables of Velvet— Sentences of Plush,
STEP lightly on this narrow spot… The broadest land that grows Is not so ample as the breast These emerald seams enclose. Step lofty; for this name is told
‘Heavenly Father’ - take to thee The supreme iniquity Fashioned by thy candid Hand In a moment contraband - Though to trust us - seems to us
828 The Robin is the One That interrupt the Morn With hurried—few—express Reports When March is scarcely on—
II OUR share of night to bear, Our share of morning, Our blank in bliss to fill, Our blank in scorning.
778 This that would greet—an hour ago— Is quaintest Distance—now— Had it a Guest from Paradise— Nor glow, would it, nor bow—
820 All Circumstances are the Frame In which His Face is set— All Latitudes exist for His Sufficient Continent—
512 The Soul has Bandaged moments— When too appalled to stir— She feels some ghastly Fright com… And stop to look at her—
Lightly stepped a yellow star To its lofty place - Loosed the Moon her silver hat From her lustral Face - All of Evening softly lit
382 For Death—or rather For the Things 'twould buy— This—put away Life’s Opportunity—
154 Except to Heaven, she is nought. Except for Angels—lone. Except to some wide-wandering Bee A flower superfluous blown.
204 I’ll tell you how the Sun rose— A Ribbon at a time— The Steeples swam in Amethyst— The news, like Squirrels, ran—