#AmericanWriters
75 She died at play, Gambolled away Her lease of spotted hours, Then sank as gaily as a Turn
XLVII IS Heaven a physician? They say that He can heal; But medicine posthumous Is unavailable.
492 Civilization—spurns—the Leopard! Was the Leopard—bold? Deserts—never rebuked her Satin— Ethiop—her Gold—
314 Nature—sometimes sears a Sapling— Sometimes—scalps a Tree— Her Green People recollect it When they do not die—
II OUR share of night to bear, Our share of morning, Our blank in bliss to fill, Our blank in scorning.
577 If I may have it, when it’s dead, I’ll be contented—so— If just as soon as Breath is out It shall belong to me—
262 The lonesome for they know not Wh… The Eastern Exiles—be— Who strayed beyond the Amber line Some madder Holiday—
I measure every Grief I meet With narrow, probing, Eyes— I wonder if It weighs like Mine— Or has an Easier size. I wonder if They bore it long—
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
659 That first Day, when you praised… And said that I was strong— And could be mighty, if I liked— That Day—the Days among—
242 When we stand on the tops of Thin… And like the Trees, look down— The smoke all cleared away from it… And Mirrors on the scene—
560 It knew no lapse, nor Diminuation… But large—serene— Burned on—until through Dissoluti… It failed from Men—
Immured in Heaven! What a Cell! Let every Bondage be, Thou sweetest of the Universe, Like that which ravished thee!
108 Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the Culprit—Life!
539 The Province of the Saved Should be the Art—To save— Through Skill obtained in Themsel… The Science of the Grave