#AmericanWriters
The sky is low, the clouds are mea… A travelling flake of snow Across a barn or through a rut Debates if it will go. A narrow wind complains all day
730 Defrauded I a Butterfly— The lawful Heir—for Thee—
144 She bore it till the simple veins Traced azure on her hand— Til pleading, round her quiet eyes The purple Crayons stand.
UP with the sun, the breeze arose… Across the talking corn she goes, And smooth she rustles far and wid… Through all the voiceful countrysi… Through all the land her tale she…
892 Who occupies this House? A Stranger I must judge Since No one know His Circumstan… ’Tis well the name and age
GLEE! the great storm is over! Four have recovered the land; Forty gone down together Into the boiling sand. Ring, for the scant salvation!
15 The Guest is gold and crimson— An Opal guest and gray— Of Ermine is his doublet— His Capuchin gay—
620 It makes no difference abroad— The Seasons—fit—the same— The Mornings blossom into Noons— And split their Pods of Flame—
IX THE heart asks pleasure first, And then, excuse from pain; And then, those little anodynes That deaden suffering;
How lonesome the Wind must feel N… When people have put out the Ligh… And everything that has an Inn Closes the shutter and goes in— How pompous the Wind must feel No…
902 The first Day that I was a Life I recollect it—How still— That last Day that I was a Life I recollect it—as well—
134 Perhaps you’d like to buy a flower… But I could never sell— If you would like to borrow, Until the Daffodil
Witchcraft has not a Pedigree ’Tis early as our Breath And mourners meet it going out The moment of our death—
XL I NEVER lost as much but twice, And that was in the sod; Twice have I stood a beggar Before the door of God!
407 If What we could—were what we wou… Criterion—be small— It is the Ultimate of Talk— The Impotence to Tell—