#AmericanWriters
470 I am alive—I guess— The Branches on my Hand Are full of Morning Glory— And at my finger’s end—
169 In Ebon Box, when years have flow… To reverently peer, Wiping away the velvet dust Summers have sprinkled there!
I like to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step Around a pile of mountains,
LXXXVI A LADY red upon the hill Her annual secret keeps; A lady white within the field In placid lily sleeps!
Proud of my broken heart, since th… Proud of the pain, I did not feel… Proud of my night, since thou, wit… Not to partake thy passion, –my hu… Thou can’st not boast, like Jesus…
Who were “the Father and the Son” We pondered when a child, And what had they to do with us And when portentous told With inference appalling
XXI HE ate and drank the precious wor… His spirit grew robust; He knew no more that he was poor, Nor that his frame was dust.
789 On a Columnar Self— How ample to rely In Tumult—or Extremity— How good the Certainty
XXIV WHETHER my bark went down at se… Whether she met with gales, Whether to isles enchanted She bent her docile sails;
713 Fame of Myself, to justify, All other Plaudit be Superfluous—An Incense Beyond Necessity—
71 A throe upon the features— A hurry in the breath— An ecstasy of parting Denominated “Death”—
315 He fumbles at your Soul As Players at the Keys Before they drop full Music on— He stuns you by degrees—
242 When we stand on the tops of Thin… And like the Trees, look down— The smoke all cleared away from it… And Mirrors on the scene—
LVII EXCEPT the heaven had come so n… So seemed to choose my door, The distance would not haunt me so… I had not hoped before.
Not any sunny tone From any fervent zone Find entrance there - Better a grave of Balm Toward human nature’s home -
