#AmericanWriters
65 I can’t tell you—but you feel it— Nor can you tell me— Saints, with ravished slate and pe… Solve our April Day!
The Road was lit with Moon and st… The Trees were bright and still - Descried I - by the distant Ligh… A Traveller on a Hill - To magic Perpendiculars
999 Superfluous were the Sun When Excellence be dead He were superfluous every Day For every Day be said
535 She’s happy, with a new Content— That feels to her—like Sacrament— She’s busy—with an altered Care— As just apprenticed to the Air—
The Hills in Purple syllables The Day’s Adventures tell To little Groups of Continents Just going Home from School.
859 A Doubt if it be Us Assists the staggering Mind In an extremer Anguish Until it footing find.
781 To wait an Hour—is long— If Love be just beyond— To wait Eternity—is short— If Love reward the end—
672 The Future—never spoke— Nor will He—like the Dumb— Reveal by sign—a syllable Of His Profound To Come—
270 One Life of so much Consequence! Yet I—for it—would pay— My Soul’s entire income— In ceaseless—salary—
33 If recollecting were forgetting, Then I remember not. And if forgetting, recollecting, How near I had forgot.
Could mortal lip divine The undeveloped Freight Of a delivered syllable ‘Twould crumble with the weight.
50 I haven’t told my garden yet— Lest that should conquer me. I haven’t quite the strength now To break it to the Bee—
57 To venerate the simple days Which lead the seasons by, Needs but to remember That from you or I,
956 What shall I do when the Summer t… What, when the Rose is ripe— What when the Eggs fly off in Mus… From the Maple Keep?
448 This was a Poet—It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings— And Attar so immense