#AmericanWriters
466 ’Tis little I—could care for Pear… Who own the ample sea— Or Brooches—when the Emperor— With Rubies—pelteth me—
XXVIII I BRING an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching, next to min… And summon them to drink. Crackling with fever, they essay;
To mend each tattered Faith There is a needle fair Though no appearance indicate ’Tis threaded in the Air And though it do not wear
462 Why make it doubt — it hurts it so… So sick — to guess — So strong — to know — So brave — upon its little Bed
631 Ourselves were wed one summer’—dea… Your Vision’—was in June’— And when Your little Lifetime fai… I wearied’—too’—of mine’—
792 Through the strait pass of sufferi… The Martyrs—even—trod. Their feet—upon Temptations— Their faces—upon God—
LV I envy seas whereon he rides, I envy spokes of wheels Of chariots that him convey, I envy speechless hills
649 Her Sweet turn to leave the Homes… Came the Darker Way— Carriages—Be Sure—and Guests—too… But for Holiday
987 The Leaves like Women interchange Exclusive Confidence— Somewhat of nods and somewhat Portentous inference.
678 Wolfe demanded during dying “Which obtain the Day”? “General, the British”—"Easy” Answered Wolfe “to die”
Before you thought of spring, Except as a surmise, You see, God bless his suddenness… A fellow in the skies Of independent hues,
They shut me up in Prose— As when a little Girl They put me in the Closet— Because they liked me “still”— Still! Could themself have peeped…
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry....
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,
656 The name—of it—is “Autumn”— The hue—of it—is Blood— An Artery—upon the Hill— A Vein—along the Road—