#AmericanWriters
Apparently with no surprise, To any happy flower, The frost beheads it at its play, In accidental power. The blond assassin passes on.
Our lives are Swiss— So still—so Cool— Till some odd afternoon The Alps neglect their Curtains And we look farther on!
400 A Tongue’—to tell Him I am true! Its fee’—to be of Gold’— Had Nature’—in Her monstrous Hou… A single Ragged Child’—
To lose thee, sweeter than to gain All other hearts I knew. Tis true the drought is destitute But, then, I had the dew! The Caspian has its realms of san…
787 Such is the Force of Happiness— The Least—can lift a Ton Assisted by its stimulus— Who Misery—sustain—
128 Bring me the sunset in a cup, Reckon the morning’s flagons up And say how many Dew, Tell me how far the morning leaps—
112 Where bells no more affright the m… Where scrabble never comes— Where very nimble Gentlemen Are forced to keep their rooms—
589 The Night was wide, and furnished… With but a single Star— That often as a Cloud it met— Blew out itself—for fear—
144 She bore it till the simple veins Traced azure on her hand— Til pleading, round her quiet eyes The purple Crayons stand.
890 From Us She wandered now a Year, Her tarrying, unknown, If Wilderness prevent her feet Or that Ethereal Zone
662 Embarrassment of one another And God Is Revelation’s limit, Aloud
Awake ye muses nine, sing me a str… Unwind the solemn twine, and tie m… Oh the Earth was made for lovers,… For sighing, and gentle whispering… All things do go a courting, in ea…
924 Love—is that later Thing than Dea… More previous—than Life— Confirms it at its entrance—And Usurps it—of itself—
34 Garland for Queens, may be— Laurels—for rare degree Of soul or sword. Ah—but remembering me—
557 She hideth Her the last— And is the first, to rise— Her Night doth hardly recompense The Closing of Her eyes—