#AmericanWriters
I like to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step Around a pile of mountains,
849 The good Will of a Flower The Man who would possess Must first present Certificate
603 He found my Being—set it up— Adjusted it to place— Then carved his name—upon it— And bade it to the East
To die—takes just a little while— They say it doesn’t hurt— It’s only fainter—by degrees— And then—it’s out of sight— A darker Ribbon—for a Day—
A lane of Yellow led the eye Unto a Purple Wood Whose soft inhabitants to be Surpasses solitude If Bird the silence contradict
591 To interrupt His Yellow Plan The Sun does not allow Caprices of the Atmosphere— And even when the Snow
864 The Robin for the Crumb Returns no syllable But long records the Lady’s name In Silver Chronicle.
XXXIV NATURE is what we see, The Hill, the Afternoon— Squirrel, Eclipse, the Bumble-bee… Nay—Nature is Heaven.
Publication—is the Auction Of the Mind of Man— Poverty—be justifying For so foul a thing Possibly—but We—would rather
617 Don’t put up my Thread and Needle… I’ll begin to Sew When the Birds begin to whistle— Better Stitches—so—
217 Savior! I’ve no one else to tell— And so I trouble thee. I am the one forgot thee so— Dost thou remember me?
XVII SHE rose to his requirement, drop… The playthings of her life To take the honorable work Of woman and of wife.
889 Crisis is a Hair Toward which the forces creep Past which forces retrograde If it come in sleep
530 You cannot put a Fire out— A Thing that can ignite Can go, itself, without a Fan— Upon the slowest Night—
481 The Himmaleh was known to stoop Unto the Daisy low— Transported with Compassion That such a Doll should grow