#AmericanWriters
646 I think to Live—may be a Bliss To those who dare to try— Beyond my limit to conceive— My lip—to testify—
529 I’m sorry for the Dead—Today— It’s such congenial times Old Neighbors have at fences— It’s time o’ year for Hay.
If you were coming in the fall, I’d brush the summer by With half a smile and half a spum, As housewives do a fly. If I could see you in a year,
XVIII READ, sweet, how others strove, Till we are stouter; What they renounced, Till we are less afraid;
447 Could—I do more—for Thee— Wert Thou a Bumble Bee— Since for the Queen, have I— Nought but Bouquet?
128 Bring me the sunset in a cup, Reckon the morning’s flagons up And say how many Dew, Tell me how far the morning leaps—
35 Nobody knows this little Rose— It might a pilgrim be Did I not take it from the ways And lift it up to thee.
566 A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink— I hunted all the Sand— I caught the Dripping of a Rock And bore it in my Hand—
867 Escaping backward to perceive The Sea upon our place— Escaping forward, to confront His glittering Embrace—
551 There is a Shame of Nobleness— Confronting Sudden Pelf— A finer Shame of Ecstasy— Convicted of Itself—
811 The Veins of other Flowers The Scarlet Flowers are Till Nature leisure has for Terms As “Branch,” and “Jugular.”
XLVIII THOUGH I get home how late, how… So I get home, ’t will compensate… Better will be the ecstasy That they have done expecting me,
208 The Rose did caper on her cheek— Her Bodice rose and fell— Her pretty speech—like drunken men… Did stagger pitiful—
448 This was a Poet—It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings— And Attar so immense
731 “I want”—it pleaded—All its life— I want—was chief it said When Skill entreated it—the last— And when so newly dead—