#AmericanWriters
Our lives are Swiss— So still—so Cool— Till some odd afternoon The Alps neglect their Curtains And we look farther on!
A Route of Evanescence With a revolving Wheel— A Resonance of Emerald— A Rush of Cochineal— And every Blossom on the Bush
384 No Rack can torture me— My Soul—at Liberty— Behind this mortal Bone There knits a bolder One—
588 I cried at Pity—not at Pain— I heard a Woman say “Poor Child”—and something in her… Convicted me—of me—
752 So the Eyes accost’—and sunder In an Audience’— Stamped’—occasionally’—forever’— So may Countenance
616 I rose—because He sank— I thought it would be opposite— But when his power dropped— My Soul grew straight.
Declaiming Waters none may dread… But Waters that are still Are so for that most fatal cause In Nature– they are full –
XLI THE soul unto itself Is an imperial friend,— Or the most agonizing spy An enemy could send.
490 To One denied the drink To tell what Water is Would be acuter, would it not Than letting Him surmise?
XXXVII For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ecstasy.
827 The Only News I know Is Bulletins all Day From Immortality. The Only Shows I see—
915 Faith’—is the Pierless Bridge Supporting what We see Unto the Scene that We do not’— Too slender for the eye
868 They ask but our Delight— The Darlings of the Soil And grant us all their Countenanc… For a penurious smile.
115 What Inn is this Where for the night Peculiar Traveller comes? Who is the Landlord?
76 Exultation is the going Of an inland soul to sea, Past the houses—past the headlands… Into deep Eternity—