#AmericanWriters
856 There is a finished feeling Experienced at Graves— A leisure of the Future— A Wilderness of Size.
716 The Day undressed—Herself— Her Garter—was of Gold— Her Petticoat—of Purple plain— Her Dimities—as old
844 Spring is the Period Express from God. Among the other seasons Himself abide,
XXIX THE nearest dream recedes, unreal… The heaven we chase Like the June bee Before the school—boy
A drop fell on the apple tree Another on the roof; A half a dozen kissed the eaves, And made the gables laugh. A few went out to help the brook,
965 Denial—is the only fact Perceived by the Denied— Whose Will—a numb significance— The Day the Heaven died—
368 How sick—to wait—in any place—but… I knew last night—when someone tri… Thinking—perhaps—that I looked ti… Or breaking—almost—with unspoken p…
Those fair—fictitious People— The Women—plucked away From our familiar Lifetime— The Men of Ivory— Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas—
916 His Feet are shod with Gauze— His Helmet, is of Gold, His Breast, a Single Onyx With Chrysophrase, inlaid.
444 It feels a shame to be Alive— When Men so brave—are dead— One envies the Distinguished Dust… Permitted—such a Head—
The Hills in Purple syllables The Day’s Adventures tell To little Groups of Continents Just going Home from School.
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,
917 Love—is anterior to Life— Posterior—to Death— Initial of Creation, and The Exponent of Earth—
Between My Country—and the Other… There is a Sea— But Flowers—negotiate between us— As Ministry.
On this wondrous sea Sailing silently, Ho! Pilot, ho! Knowest thou the shore Where no breakers roar—
