#AmericanWriters
348 I would not paint — a picture — I'd rather be the One It's bright impossibility To dwell — delicious — on —
568 We learned the Whole of Love— The Alphabet—the Words— A Chapter—then the mighty Book— Then—Revelation closed—
792 Through the strait pass of sufferi… The Martyrs—even—trod. Their feet—upon Temptations— Their faces—upon God—
964 “Unto Me?” I do not know you— Where may be your House? “I am Jesus—Late of Judea— Now—of Paradise”—
243 I’ve known a Heaven, like a Tent— To wrap its shining Yards— Pluck up its stakes, and disappear… Without the sound of Boards
452 The Malay—took the Pearl— Not—I—the Earl— I—feared the Sea—too much Unsanctified—to touch—
621 I asked no other thing— No other—was denied— I offered Being—for it— The Mighty Merchant sneered—
607 Of nearness to her sundered Thing… The Soul has special times— When Dimness—looks the Oddity— Distinctness—easy—se ems—
XLV DELIGHT becomes pictorial When viewed through pain,— More fair, because impossible That any gain.
593 I think I was enchanted When first a sombre Girl— I read that Foreign Lady— The Dark—felt beautiful—
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!
This is the land the sunset washes… These are the banks of the Yellow… Where it rose, or whither it rushe… These are the western mystery! Night after night her purple traff…
XLVII IS Heaven a physician? They say that He can heal; But medicine posthumous Is unavailable.
717 The Beggar Lad—dies early— It’s Somewhat in the Cold— And Somewhat in the Trudging feet… And haply, in the World—
It struck me every day The lightning was as new As if the cloud that instant slit And let the fire through. It burned me in the night,