#AmericanWriters
141 Some, too fragile for winter winds The thoughtful grave encloses— Tenderly tucking them in from fros… Before their feet are cold.
539 The Province of the Saved Should be the Art—To save— Through Skill obtained in Themsel… The Science of the Grave
How firm Eternity must look To crumbling men like me The only Adamant Estate In all Identity - How mighty to the insecure
698 Life—is what we make of it— Death—we do not know— Christ’s acquaintance with Him Justify Him—though—
Some Days retired from the rest In soft distinction lie The Day that a Companion came Or was obliged to die
Immured in Heaven! What a Cell! Let every Bondage be, Thou sweetest of the Universe, Like that which ravished thee!
909 I make His Crescent fill or lack— His Nature is at Full Or Quarter—as I signify— His Tides—do I control—
825 An Hour is a Sea Between a few, and me— With them would Harbor be—
763 He told a homely tale And spotted it with tears— Upon his infant face was set The Cicatrice of years—
129 Cocoon above! Cocoon below! Stealthy Cocoon, why hide you so What all the world suspect? An hour, and gay on every tree
756 One Blessing had I than the rest So larger to my Eyes That I stopped gauging—satisfied— For this enchanted size—
731 “I want”—it pleaded—All its life— I want—was chief it said When Skill entreated it—the last— And when so newly dead—
A thought went up my mind to-day That I have had before, But did not finish,—some way back, I could not fix the year, Nor where it went, nor why it came
The Devil—had he fidelity Would be the best friend— Because he has ability— But Devils cannot mend— Perfidy is the virtue
LXIII TALK with prudence to a beggar Of “Potosi” and the mines! Reverently to the hungry Of your viands and your wines!