#AmericanWriters
475 Doom is the House without the Doo… ’Tis entered from the Sun— And then the Ladder’s thrown away… Because Escape—is done—
275 Doubt Me! My Dim Companion! Why, God, would be content With but a fraction of the Life— Poured thee, without a stint—
XXVIII I BRING an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching, next to min… And summon them to drink. Crackling with fever, they essay;
912 Peace is a fiction of our Faith— The Bells a Winter Night Bearing the Neighbor out of Sound That never did alight.
Glory is that bright tragic thing That for an instant Means Dominion - Warms some poor name That never felt the Sun,
MINE by the right of the white e… Mine by the royal seal! Mine by the sign in the scarlet pr… Bars cannot conceal! Mine, here in vision and in veto!
64 Some Rainbow—coming from the Fair… Some Vision of the World Cashmer… I confidently see! Or else a Peacock’s purple Train
I noticed People disappeared When but a little child - Supposed they visited remote Or settled Regions wild - But did because they died
589 The Night was wide, and furnished… With but a single Star— That often as a Cloud it met— Blew out itself—for fear—
I stepped from plank to plank So slow and cautiously; The stars about my head I felt, About my feet the sea. I knew not but the next
189 It’s such a little thing to weep— So short a thing to sigh— And yet—by Trades—the size of the… We men and women die!
83 Heart, not so heavy as mine Wending late home— As it passed my window Whistled itself a tune—
339 I tend my flowers for thee— Bright Absentee! My Fuchsia’s Coral Seams Rip—while the Sower—dreams—
After great pain a formal feeling… The nerves sit ceremonious like to… The stiff Heart questions—was it… And yesterday—or centuries before? The feet, mechanical, go round
782 There is an arid Pleasure— As different from Joy— As Frost is different from Dew— Like element—are they—