#AmericanWriters
LX The grass so little has to do,— A sphere of simple green, With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain,
614 In falling Timbers buried— There breathed a Man— Outside—the spades—were plying— The Lungs—within—
796 Who Giants know, with lesser Men Are incomplete, and shy— For Greatness, that is ill at eas… In minor Company—
264 A Weight with Needles on the poun… To push, and pierce, besides— That if the Flesh resist the Heft… The puncture—coolly tries—
644 You left me—Sire—two Legacies— A Legacy of Love A Heavenly Father would suffice Had He the offer of—
952 A Man may make a Remark— In itself—a quiet thing That may furnish the Fuse unto a… In dormant nature—lain—
12 The morns are meeker than they wer… The nuts are getting brown— The berry’s cheek is plumper— The Rose is out of town.
1545 The Bible is an antique Volume— Written by faded men At the suggestion of Holy Spectre… Subjects—Bethlehem&mdash ;
113 Our share of night to bear— Our share of morning— Our blank in bliss to fill Our blank in scorning—
325 Of Tribulation, these are They, Denoted by the White— The Spangled Gowns, a lesser Ran… Of Victors—designate—
It is an honorable thought, And makes one lift one’s hat, As one encountered gentlefolk Upon a daily street, That we’ve immortal place,
428 Taking up the fair Ideal, Just to cast her down When a fracture—we discover— Or a splintered Crown—
41 I robbed the Woods— The trusting Woods. The unsuspecting Trees Brought out their Burs and mosses
I had been hungry all the years– My noon had come, to dine– I, trembling, drew the table near And touched the curious wine. ‘T was this on tables I had seen
I never saw a moor; I never saw the sea, Yet know I how the heather looks And what a billow be. I never spoke with God,