#AmericanWriters
13 Sleep is supposed to be By souls of sanity The shutting of the eye. Sleep is the station grand
Dying at my music! Bubble! Bubble! Hold me till the Octave’s run! Quick! Burst the Windows! Ritardando!
921 If it had no pencil Would it try mine— Worn—now—and dull—sweet, Writing much to thee.
GLEE! the great storm is over! Four have recovered the land; Forty gone down together Into the boiling sand. Ring, for the scant salvation!
XVIII READ, sweet, how others strove, Till we are stouter; What they renounced, Till we are less afraid;
871 The Sun and Moon must make their… The Stars express around For in the Zones of Paradise The Lord alone is burned—
833 Perhaps you think me stooping I’m not ashamed of that Christ—stooped until He touched t… Do those at Sacrament
A PRECIOUS, mouldering pleasur… To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore… A privilege, I think, His venerable hand to take,
491 While it is alive Until Death touches it While it and I lap one Air Dwell in one Blood
959 A loss of something ever felt I— The first that I could recollect Bereft I was—of what I knew not Too young that any should suspect
23 I had a guinea golden— I lost it in the sand— And tho’ the sum was simple And pounds were in the land—
548 Death is potential to that Man Who dies—and to his friend— Beyond that—unconspicuous To Anyone but God—
THE BAT is dun with wrinkled wi… Like fallow article, And not a song pervades his lips, Or none perceptible. His small umbrella, quaintly halve…
628 They called me to the Window, for “ ’Twas Sunset”—Some one said— I only saw a Sapphire Farm— And just a Single Herd—
578 The Body grows without— The more convenient way— That if the Spirit—like to hide Its Temple stands, alway,