#AmericanWriters
LXVII If I should die, And you should live, And time should gurgle on, And morn should beam,
How Human Nature dotes On what it can’t detect. The moment that a Plot is plumbed Prospective is extinct - Prospective is the friend
672 The Future—never spoke— Nor will He—like the Dumb— Reveal by sign—a syllable Of His Profound To Come—
978 It bloomed and dropt, a Single No… The Flower—distinct and Red— I, passing, thought another Noon Another in its stead
395 Reverse cannot befall That fine Prosperity Whose Sources are interior— As soon—Adversity
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,
760 Most she touched me by her mutenes… Most she won me by the way She presented her small figure— Plea itself—for Charity—
849 The good Will of a Flower The Man who would possess Must first present Certificate
890 From Us She wandered now a Year, Her tarrying, unknown, If Wilderness prevent her feet Or that Ethereal Zone
So proud she was to die It made us all ashamed That what we cherished, so unknown To her desire seemed. So satisfied to go
1100 The last Night that She lived It was a Common Night Except the Dying—this to Us Made Nature different
717 The Beggar Lad—dies early— It’s Somewhat in the Cold— And Somewhat in the Trudging feet… And haply, in the World—
624 Forever—it composed of Nows— ’Tis not a different time— Except for Infiniteness— And Latitude of Home—
Sometimes with the Heart Seldom with the Soul Scarcer once with the Might Few - love at all.
846 Twice had Summer her fair Verdure Proffered to the Plain— Twice a Winter’s silver Fracture On the Rivers been—