#AmericanWriters
864 The Robin for the Crumb Returns no syllable But long records the Lady’s name In Silver Chronicle.
979 This Merit hath the worst— It cannot be again— When Fate hath taunted last And thrown Her furthest Stone—
763 He told a homely tale And spotted it with tears— Upon his infant face was set The Cicatrice of years—
35 Nobody knows this little Rose— It might a pilgrim be Did I not take it from the ways And lift it up to thee.
XXX WE play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool.
MINE enemy is growing old, I have at last revenge. The palate of the hate departs; If any would avenge, Let him be quick, the viand flits,
The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,— The sweeping up the heart,
30 Adrift! A little boat adrift! And night is coming down! Will no one guide a little boat Unto the nearest town?
596 When I was small, a Woman died— Today—her Only Boy Went up from the Potomac— His face all Victory
128 Bring me the sunset in a cup, Reckon the morning’s flagons up And say how many Dew, Tell me how far the morning leaps—
564 My period had come for Prayer— No other Art—would do— My Tactics missed a rudiment— Creator—Was it you?
834 Before He comes we weigh the Time… ’Tis Heavy and ’tis Light. When He depart, an Emptiness Is the prevailing Freight.
656 The name—of it—is “Autumn”— The hue—of it—is Blood— An Artery—upon the Hill— A Vein—along the Road—
92 My friend must be a Bird’— Because it flies! Mortal, my friend must be, Because it dies!
Going to him! Happy letter! Tell… Tell him the page I didn’t write; Tell him I only said the syntax, And left the verb and the pronoun… Tell him just how the fingers hurr…