#AmericanWriters
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.
101 Will there really be a “Morning”? Is there such a thing as “Day”? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they?
“Why do I love” You, Sir? Because’— The Wind does not require the Gra… To answer’—Wherefore when He pass She cannot keep Her place.
Delight becomes pictorial When viewed through pain,— More fair, because impossible That any gain. The mountaln at a given distance
My River runs to thee’— Blue Sea! Wilt welcome me? My River wait reply’— Oh Sea’—look graciously’— I’ll fetch thee Brooks
170 Portraits are to daily faces As an Evening West, To a fine, pedantic sunshine— In a satin Vest!
678 Wolfe demanded during dying “Which obtain the Day”? “General, the British”—"Easy” Answered Wolfe “to die”
242 When we stand on the tops of Thin… And like the Trees, look down— The smoke all cleared away from it… And Mirrors on the scene—
301 I reason, Earth is short— And Anguish—absolute— And many hurt, But, what of that?
728 Let Us play Yesterday— I—the Girl at school— You—and Eternity—the Untold Tale—
204 I’ll tell you how the Sun rose— A Ribbon at a time— The Steeples swam in Amethyst— The news, like Squirrels, ran—
XXXVII For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ecstasy.
Dare you see a Soul at the White… Then crouch within the door— Red—is the Fire’s common tint— But when the vivid Ore Has vanquished Flame’s conditions…
Elysium is as far as to The very nearest Room If in that Room a Friend await Felicity or Doom— What fortitude the Soul contains
781 To wait an Hour—is long— If Love be just beyond— To wait Eternity—is short— If Love reward the end—