#AmericanWriters
Glory is that bright tragic thing That for an instant Means Dominion - Warms some poor name That never felt the Sun,
892 Who occupies this House? A Stranger I must judge Since No one know His Circumstan… ’Tis well the name and age
The Work of Her that went, The Toil of Fellows done - In Ovens green our Mother bakes, By Fires of the Sun.
Much Madness is divinest Sense - To a discerning Eye - Much Sense– the starkest Madness… ’Tis the Majority In this, as All, prevail -
73 Who never lost, are unprepared A Coronet to find! Who never thirsted Flagons, and Cooling Tamarind!
768 When I hoped, I recollect Just the place I stood— At a Window facing West— Roughest Air—was good—
A PRECIOUS, mouldering pleasur… To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore… A privilege, I think, His venerable hand to take,
588 I cried at Pity—not at Pain— I heard a Woman say “Poor Child”—and something in her… Convicted me—of me—
530 You cannot put a Fire out— A Thing that can ignite Can go, itself, without a Fan— Upon the slowest Night—
The Hills erect their Purple Hea… The Rivers lean to see Yet Man has not of all the Throng A Curiosity.
761 From Blank to Blank— A Threadless Way I pushed Mechanic feet— To stop—or perish—or advance—
I know a place where summer strive… With such a practised frost, She each year leads her daisies ba… Recording briefly, ‘Lost.’ But when the south wind stirs the…
925 Struck, was I, not yet by Lightni… Lightning—lets away Power to perceive His Process With Vitality.
’Twas comfort in her Dying Room To hear the living Clock— A short relief to have the wind Walk boldly up and knock— Diversion from the Dying Theme
The Face we choose to miss - Be it but for a Day As absent as a Hundred Years, When it has rode away.