#AmericanWriters
XLI THE soul unto itself Is an imperial friend,— Or the most agonizing spy An enemy could send.
215 What is – “Paradise” – Who live there – Are they “Farmers” – Do they “hoe” –
Shall I take thee, the Poet said To the propounded word? Be stationed with the Candidates Till I have finer tried— The Poet searched Philology
91 So bashful when I spied her! So pretty—so ashamed! So hidden in her leaflets Lest anybody find—
XLV DELIGHT becomes pictorial When viewed through pain,— More fair, because impossible That any gain.
To flee from memory Had we the Wings Many would fly Inured to slower things Birds with surprise
Years I had been from home, And now, before the door I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before Stare vacant into mine
634 You’ll know Her—by Her Foot— The smallest Gamboge Hand With Fingers—where the Toes shoul… Would more affront the Sand—
559 It knew no Medicine— It was not Sickness—then— Nor any need of Surgery— And therefore—'twas not Pain—
867 Escaping backward to perceive The Sea upon our place— Escaping forward, to confront His glittering Embrace—
915 Faith’—is the Pierless Bridge Supporting what We see Unto the Scene that We do not’— Too slender for the eye
Let me not mar that perfect Dream By an Auroral stain But so adjust my daily Night That it will come again. Not when we know, the Power accos…
392 Through the Dark Sod—as Educatio… The Lily passes sure— Feels her white foot—no trepidatio… Her faith—no fear—
260 Read—Sweet—how others—strove— Till we—are stouter— What they—renounced— Till we—are less afraid—
270 One Life of so much Consequence! Yet I—for it—would pay— My Soul’s entire income— In ceaseless—salary—