#AmericanWriters
468 The Manner of its Death When Certain it must die— ’Tis deemed a privilege to choose— ’Twas Major Andre’s Way—
962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—
There is no frigate like a book To take us lands away, Nor any coursers like a page Of prancing poetry. This traverse may the poorest take
415 Sunset at Night—is natural— But Sunset on the Dawn Reverses Nature—Master— So Midnight's—due—at Noon.
1068 Further in Summer than the Birds Pathetic from the Grass A minor Nation celebrates Its unobtrusive Mass.
273 He put the Belt around my life I heard the Buckle snap— And turned away, imperial, My Lifetime folding up—
399 A House upon the Height— That Wagon never reached— No Dead, were ever carried down— No Peddler’s Cart—approached—
405 It might be lonelier Without the Loneliness— I’m so accustomed to my Fate— Perhaps the Other—Peace—
“Morning”—means “Milking”—to the… Dawn—to the Teneriffe— Dice—to the Maid— Morning means just Risk—to the Lo… Just revelation—to the Beloved—
994 Partake as doth the Bee, Abstemiously. The Rose is an Estate— In Sicily.
305 The difference between Despair And Fear—is like the One Between the instant of a Wreck And when the Wreck has been—
As from the earth the light Ballo… Asks nothing but release - Ascension that for which it was, Its soaring Residence. The spirit looks upon the Dust
These Fevered Days—to take them t… Where Waters cool around the moss… And shade is all that devastates t… Seems it sometimes this would be a…
25 She slept beneath a tree— Remembered but by me. I touched her Cradle mute— She recognized the foot—
LXII BEFORE I got my eye put out, I liked as well to see As other creatures that have eyes, And know no other way.