#AmericanWriters
577 If I may have it, when it’s dead, I’ll be contented—so— If just as soon as Breath is out It shall belong to me—
410 The first Day’s Night had come— And grateful that a thing So terrible—had been endured— I told my Soul to sing—
885 Our little Kinsmen’—after Rain In plenty may be seen, A Pink and Pulpy multitude The tepid Ground upon.
911 Too little way the House must lie From every Human Heart That holds in undisputed Lease A white inhabitant—
843 I made slow Riches but my Gain Was steady as the Sun And every Night, it numbered more Than the preceding One
983 Ideals are the Fairly Oil With which we help the Wheel But when the Vital Axle turns The Eye rejects the Oil.
The wind begun to rock the grass With threatening tunes and low,— He flung a menace at the earth, A menace at the sky. The leaves unhooked themselves fro…
123 Many cross the Rhine In this cup of mine. Sip old Frankfort air From my brown Cigar.
550 I cross till I am weary A Mountain—in my mind— More Mountains—then a Sea— More Seas—And then
509 If anybody’s friend be dead It’s sharpest of the theme The thinking how they walked alive… At such and such a time—
989 Gratitude—is not the mention Of a Tenderness, But its still appreciation Out of Plumb of Speech.
115 What Inn is this Where for the night Peculiar Traveller comes? Who is the Landlord?
34 Garland for Queens, may be— Laurels—for rare degree Of soul or sword. Ah—but remembering me—
451 The Outer—from the Inner Derives its Magnitude— 'Tis Duke, or Dwarf, according As is the Central Mood—
908 ’Tis Sunrise—Little Maid—Hast T… No Station in the Day? ’Twas not thy wont, to hinder so— Retrieve thine industry—