#AmericanWriters
It’s like the light,— A fashionless delight It’s like the bee,— A dateless melody. It’s like the woods,
879 Each Second is the last Perhaps, recalls the Man Just measuring unconsciousness The Sea and Spar between.
My Life had stood—a Loaded Gun— In Corners—till a Day The Owner passed—identified— And carried Me away— And now We roam in Sovereign Woo…
384 No Rack can torture me— My Soul—at Liberty— Behind this mortal Bone There knits a bolder One—
603 He found my Being—set it up— Adjusted it to place— Then carved his name—upon it— And bade it to the East
111 The Bee is not afraid of me. I know the Butterfly. The pretty people in the Woods Receive me cordially—
The Work of Her that went, The Toil of Fellows done - In Ovens green our Mother bakes, By Fires of the Sun.
568 We learned the Whole of Love— The Alphabet—the Words— A Chapter—then the mighty Book— Then—Revelation closed—
All men for Honor hardest work But are not known to earn - Paid after they have ceased to wor… In Infamy or Urn -
840 I cannot buy it—’tis not sold— There is no other in the World— Mine was the only one I was so happy I forgot
843 I made slow Riches but my Gain Was steady as the Sun And every Night, it numbered more Than the preceding One
932 My best Acquaintances are those With Whom I spoke no Word— The Stars that stated come to Tow… Esteemed Me never rude
312 Her—“last Poems”— Poets—ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled other,
684 Best Gains’—must have the Losses’… To constitute them’—Gains’—
81 We should not mind so small a flow… Except it quiet bring Our little garden that we lost Back to the Lawn again.