#AmericanWriters
115 What Inn is this Where for the night Peculiar Traveller comes? Who is the Landlord?
220 Could I—then—shut the door— Lest my beseeching face—at last— Rejected—be—of Her?
146 On such a night, or such a night, Would anybody care If such a little figure Slipped quiet from its chair—
197 Morning—is the place for Dew— Corn—is made at Noon— After dinner light—for flowers— Dukes—for Setting Sun!
912 Peace is a fiction of our Faith— The Bells a Winter Night Bearing the Neighbor out of Sound That never did alight.
71 A throe upon the features— A hurry in the breath— An ecstasy of parting Denominated “Death”—
580 I gave myself to Him— And took Himself, for Pay, The solemn contract of a Life Was ratified, this way—
674 The Soul that hath a Guest Doth seldom go abroad— Diviner Crowd at Home— Obliterate the need—
Delight becomes pictorial When viewed through pain,— More fair, because impossible That any gain. The mountaln at a given distance
993 We miss Her, not because We see— The Absence of an Eye— Except its Mind accompany Abridge Society
386 Answer July— Where is the Bee— Where is the Blush— Where is the Hay?
I went to heaven,— ‘T was a small town, Lit with a ruby, Lathed with down. Stiller than the fields
848 Just as He spoke it from his Hand… This Edifice remain— A Turret more, a Turret less Dishonor his Design—
XLIII I LIKE to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step
Renunciation—is a piercing Virtue… The letting go A Presence—for an Expectation— Not now— The putting out of Eyes—