#AmericanWriters
661 Could I but ride indefinite As doth the Meadow Bee And visit only where I liked And No one visit me
Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate Whose table once a Guest but not The second time is set.
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading—treading—till it see… That Sense was breaking through— And when they all were seated,
That only lasts an hour How much '— how little '— is Within our power
124 In lands I never saw—they say Immortal Alps look down— Whose Bonnets touch the firmament… Whose Sandals touch the town—
767 To offer brave assistance To Lives that stand alone— When One has failed to stop them— Is Human—but Divine
868 They ask but our Delight— The Darlings of the Soil And grant us all their Countenanc… For a penurious smile.
To my quick ear the leaves conferr… The bushes they were bells; I could not find a privacy From Nature’s sentinels. In cave if I presumed to hide,
27 Morns like these—we parted— Noons like these—she rose— Fluttering first—then firmer To her fair repose.
234 You’re right—“the way is narrow”— And “difficult the Gate”— And “few there be”—Correct again— That “enter in—thereat”—
September’s Baccalaureate A combination is Of Crickets– Crows– and Retros… And a dissembling Breeze That hints without assuming -
52 Whether my bark went down at sea— Whether she met with gales— Whether to isles enchanted She bent her docile sails—
501 This World is not Conclusion. A Species stands beyond— Invisible, as Music— But positive, as Sound—
987 The Leaves like Women interchange Exclusive Confidence— Somewhat of nods and somewhat Portentous inference.
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—