#AmericanWriters
789 On a Columnar Self— How ample to rely In Tumult—or Extremity— How good the Certainty
998 Best Things dwell out of Sight The Pearl—the Just—Our Thought. Most shun the Public Air Legitimate, and Rare—
1000 The Fingers of the Light Tapped soft upon the Town With “I am great and cannot wait So therefore let me in.”
149 She went as quiet as the Dew From an Accustomed flower. Not like the Dew, did she return At the Accustomed hour!
453 Love — thou art high — I cannot climb thee — But, were it Two — Who knows but we —
560 It knew no lapse, nor Diminuation… But large—serene— Burned on—until through Dissoluti… It failed from Men—
682 'Twould ease — a Butterfly — Elate — a Bee — Thou'rt neither — Neither — thy capacity —
157 Musicians wrestle everywhere— All day—among the crowded air I hear the silver strife— And—walking—long before the morn—
The Savior must have been A docile Gentleman— To come so far so cold a Day For little Fellowmen— The Road to Bethlehem
310 Give little Anguish— Lives will fret— Give Avalanches— And they’ll slant—
6 Frequently the wood are pink— Frequently are brown. Frequently the hills undress Behind my native town.
848 Just as He spoke it from his Hand… This Edifice remain— A Turret more, a Turret less Dishonor his Design—
519 ’Twas warm—at first—like Us— Until there crept upon A Chill—like frost upon a Glass— Till all the scene—be gone.
49 I never lost as much but twice, And that was in the sod. Twice have I stood a beggar Before the door of God!
I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea; Yet now I know how the heather lo… And what a wave must be. I never spoke with God,