#AmericanWriters
810 Her Grace is all she has— And that, so least displays— One Art to recognize, must be, Another Art, to praise.
230 We—Bee and I—live by the quaffing… ’Tisn’t all Hock—with us— Life has its Ale— But it’s many a lay of the Dim Bu…
62 “Sown in dishonor”! Ah! Indeed! May this “dishonor” be? If I were half so fine myself
737 The Moon was but a Chin of Gold A Night or two ago— And now she turns Her perfect Fac… Upon the World below—
The Sun kept setting—setting—stil… No Hue of Afternoon— Upon the Village I perceived From House to House ’twas Noon— The Dusk kept dropping—dropping—s…
CXXVIII I heard a fly buzz when I died; The stillness round my form Was like the stillness in the air Between the heaves of storm.
163 Tho’ my destiny be Fustian— Hers be damask fine— Tho’ she wear a silver apron— I, a less divine—
The spry Arms of the Wind If I could crawl between I have an errand imminent To an adjoining Zone - I should not care to stop
957 As One does Sickness over In convalescent Mind, His scrutiny of Chances By blessed Health obscured—
Witchcraft has not a Pedigree ’Tis early as our Breath And mourners meet it going out The moment of our death—
A Word dropped careless on a Page May stimulate an eye When folded in perpetual seam The Wrinkled Maker lie Infection in the sentence breeds
673 The Love a Life can show Below Is but a filament, I know, Of that diviner thing That faints upon the face of Noon…
468 The Manner of its Death When Certain it must die— ’Tis deemed a privilege to choose— ’Twas Major Andre’s Way—
170 Portraits are to daily faces As an Evening West, To a fine, pedantic sunshine— In a satin Vest!
The Hills erect their Purple Hea… The Rivers lean to see Yet Man has not of all the Throng A Curiosity.