#AmericanWriters
404 How many Flowers fail in Wood— Or perish from the Hill— Without the privilege to know That they are Beautiful—
She could not live upon the Past The Present did not know her And so she sought this sweet at la… And nature gently owned her The mother that has not a knell
XXXVII For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ecstasy.
6 Frequently the wood are pink— Frequently are brown. Frequently the hills undress Behind my native town.
A darting fear—a pomp—a tear— A waking on a morn To find that what one waked for, Inhales the different dawn.
XXXVI I NEVER hear the word “escape” Without a quicker blood, A sudden expectation, A flying attitude.
815 The Luxury to apprehend The Luxury 'twould be To look at Thee a single time An Epicure of Me
382 For Death—or rather For the Things 'twould buy— This—put away Life’s Opportunity—
IX THE heart asks pleasure first, And then, excuse from pain; And then, those little anodynes That deaden suffering;
Witchcraft has not a Pedigree ’Tis early as our Breath And mourners meet it going out The moment of our death—
I heard a fly buzz when I died; The stillness round my form Was like the stillness in the air Between the heaves of storm. The eyes beside had wrung them dry…
390 It’s coming—the postponeless Crea… It gains the Block—and now—it gai… Chooses its latch, from all the ot… Enters—with a “You know Me—Sir”?
A little bread—a crust—a crumb— A little trust—a demijohn— Can keep the soul alive— Not portly, mind! but breathing—wa… Conscious—as old Napoleon,
690 Victory comes late— And is held low to freezing lips— Too rapt with frost To take it—
Some Days retired from the rest In soft distinction lie The Day that a Companion came Or was obliged to die