#Americans #Women #XIXCentury
934 That is solemn we have ended Be it but a Play Or a Glee among the Garret Or a Holiday
153 Dust is the only Secret— Death, the only One You cannot find out all about In his “native town.”
916 His Feet are shod with Gauze— His Helmet, is of Gold, His Breast, a Single Onyx With Chrysophrase, inlaid.
344 ’Twas the old—road—through pain— That unfrequented—One— With many a turn—and thorn— That stops—at Heaven—
898 How happy I was if I could forget To remember how sad I am Would be an easy adversity But the recollecting of Bloom
101 Will there really be a “Morning”? Is there such a thing as “Day”? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they?
Part One: Life LI IT tossed and tossed,— A little brig I knew,— O’ertook by blast,
Could mortal lip divine The undeveloped Freight Of a delivered syllable ‘Twould crumble with the weight.
XXXII HOPE is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the wor… And never stops at all,
698 Life—is what we make of it— Death—we do not know— Christ’s acquaintance with Him Justify Him—though—
LXIII TALK with prudence to a beggar Of “Potosi” and the mines! Reverently to the hungry Of your viands and your wines!
Of Brussels—it was not— Of Kidderminster? Nay— The Winds did buy it of the Woods… They—sold it unto me It was a gentle price—
Not any sunny tone From any fervent zone Find entrance there - Better a grave of Balm Toward human nature’s home -
XLVII IS Heaven a physician? They say that He can heal; But medicine posthumous Is unavailable.
150 She died—this was the way she died… And when her breath was done Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun—