#AmericanWriters
A Coffin—is a small Domain, Yet able to contain A Citizen of Paradise In it diminished Plane. A Grave—is a restricted Breadth—
55 By Chivalries as tiny, A Blossom, or a Book, The seeds of smiles are planted— Which blossom in the dark.
334 All the letters I can write Are not fair as this— Syllables of Velvet— Sentences of Plush,
985 The Missing All’—prevented Me From missing minor Things. If nothing larger than a World’s Departure from a Hinge’—
634 You’ll know Her—by Her Foot— The smallest Gamboge Hand With Fingers—where the Toes shoul… Would more affront the Sand—
73 Who never lost, are unprepared A Coronet to find! Who never thirsted Flagons, and Cooling Tamarind!
The Grass so little has to do ' A Sphere of simple Green ' With only Butterflies to brood And Bees to entertain ' And stir all day to pretty Tunes
818 I could not drink it, Sweet, Till You had tasted first, Though cooler than the Water was The Thoughtfullness of Thirst.
395 Reverse cannot befall That fine Prosperity Whose Sources are interior— As soon—Adversity
II OUR share of night to bear, Our share of morning, Our blank in bliss to fill, Our blank in scorning.
411 The Color of the Grave is Green— The Outer Grave—I mean— You would not know it from the Fi… Except it own a Stone—
793 Grief is a Mouse— And chooses Wainscot in the Breas… For His Shy House— And baffles quest—
When a Lover is a Beggar Abject is his Knee - When a Lover is an Owner Different is he - What he begged is then the Beggar…
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
By homely gift and hindered Words The human heart is told Of Nothing - ‘Nothing’ is the force That renovates the World -