#AmericanWriters
779 The Service without Hope— Is tenderest, I think— Because ’tis unsustained By stint—Rewarded Work—
312 Her—“last Poems”— Poets—ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled other,
98 One dignity delays for all— One mitred Afternoon— None can avoid this purple— None evade this Crown!
86 South Winds jostle them— Bumblebees come— Hover—hesitate— Dri nk, and are gone—
463 I live with Him — I see His face… I go no more away For Visitor — or Sundown — Death's single privacy
182 If I shouldn’t be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb.
849 The good Will of a Flower The Man who would possess Must first present Certificate
Silence is all we dread. There’s Ransom in a Voice - But Silence is Infinity. Himself have not a face.
433 Knows how to forget! But could It teach it? Easiest of Arts, they say When one learn how
761 From Blank to Blank— A Threadless Way I pushed Mechanic feet— To stop—or perish—or advance—
945 This is a Blossom of the Brain— A small—italic Seed Lodged by Design or Happening The Spirit fructified—
837 How well I knew Her not Whom not to know has been A Bounty in prospective, now Next Door to mine the Pain.
824 [first version] The Wind begun to knead the Grass… As Women do a Dough— He flung a Hand full at the Plain…
XLIII I LIKE to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step
Departed to the judgment, A mighty afternoon; Great clouds like ushers leaning, Creation looking on. The flesh surrendered, cancelled