#AmericanWriters
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
They shut me up in Prose— As when a little Girl They put me in the Closet— Because they liked me “still”— Still! Could themself have peeped…
628 They called me to the Window, for “ ’Twas Sunset”—Some one said— I only saw a Sapphire Farm— And just a Single Herd—
XXVI THE brain within its groove Runs evenly and true; But let a splinter swerve, ’T were easier for you
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—
691 Would you like summer? Taste of o… Spices? Buy here! Ill! We have berries, for the par… Weary! Furloughs of down!
886 These tested Our Horizon— Then disappeared As Birds before achieving A Latitude.
Death sets a thing significant The eye had hurried by, Except a perished creature Entreat us tenderly To ponder little workmanships
599 There is a pain’—so utter’— It swallows substance up’— Then covers the Abyss with Trance… So Memory can step
253 You see I cannot see—your lifetim… I must guess— How many times it ache for me—toda… How many times for my far sake
81 We should not mind so small a flow… Except it quiet bring Our little garden that we lost Back to the Lawn again.
Out of sight? What of that? See the Bird —reach it! Curve by Curve —Sweep by Sweep — Round the Steep Air — Danger! What is that to Her?
348 I would not paint — a picture — I'd rather be the One It's bright impossibility To dwell — delicious — on —
I dreaded that first robin so, But he is mastered now, And I’m accustomed to him grown,— He hurts a little, though. I thought if I could only live
311 It sifts from Leaden Sieves— It powders all the Wood. It fills with Alabaster Wool The Wrinkles of the Road—
