#AmericanWriters
797 By my Window have I for Scenery Just a Sea—with a Stem— If the Bird and the Farmer—deem i… The Opinion will serve—for them—
910 Experience is the Angled Road Preferred against the Mind By—Paradox—the Mind itself— Presuming it to lead
923 How the Waters closed above Him We shall never know— How He stretched His Anguish to… That—is covered too—
“Unto Me?” I do not know you’— Where may be your House? “I am Jesus’—Late of Judea’— Now’—of Paradise"'— Wagons’—have you’—to convey me?
Epigram THIS is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,— The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty.
567 He gave away his Life— To Us—Gigantic Sum— A trifle—in his own esteem— But magnified—by Fame—
60 Like her the Saints retire, In their Chapeaux of fire, Martial as she! Like her the Evenings steal
915 Faith’—is the Pierless Bridge Supporting what We see Unto the Scene that We do not’— Too slender for the eye
641 Size circumscribes—it has no room For petty furniture— The Giant tolerates no Gnat For Ease of Gianture—
719 A South Wind—has a pathos Of individual Voice— As One detect on Landings An Emigrant’s address.
51 I often passed the village When going home from school— And wondered what they did there— And why it was so still—
LX A SHADY friend for torrid days Is easier to find Than one of higher temperature For frigid hour of mind.
13 Sleep is supposed to be By souls of sanity The shutting of the eye. Sleep is the station grand
824 [first version] The Wind begun to knead the Grass… As Women do a Dough— He flung a Hand full at the Plain…
433 Knows how to forget! But could It teach it? Easiest of Arts, they say When one learn how