#AmericanWriters
Pink, small, and punctual, Aromatic, low, Covert in April, Candid in May, Dear to the moss,
735 Upon Concluded Lives There’s nothing cooler falls— Than Life’s sweet Calculations— The mixing Bells and Palls—
382 For Death—or rather For the Things 'twould buy— This—put away Life’s Opportunity—
Awake ye muses nine, sing me a str… Unwind the solemn twine, and tie m… Oh the Earth was made for lovers,… For sighing, and gentle whispering… All things do go a courting, in ea…
172 ’Tis so much joy! ’Tis so much jo… If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I, Have ventured all upon a throw!
16 I would distil a cup, And bear to all my friends, Drinking to her no more astir, By beck, or burn, or moor!
803 Who Court obtain within Himself Sees every Man a King— And Poverty of Monarchy Is an interior thing—
904 Had I not This, or This, I said, Appealing to Myself, In moment of prosperity— Inadequate—were Life—
334 All the letters I can write Are not fair as this— Syllables of Velvet— Sentences of Plush,
XXXVI I NEVER hear the word “escape” Without a quicker blood, A sudden expectation, A flying attitude.
354 From Cocoon forth a Butterfly As Lady from her Door Emerged—a Summer Afternoon— Repairing Everywhere—
XLVII HEART, we will forget him! You and I, to—night! You may forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light.
346 Not probable—The barest Chance— A smile too few—a word too much And far from Heaven as the Rest— The Soul so close on Paradise—
496 As far from pity, as complaint— As cool to speech—as stone— As numb to Revelation As if my Trade were Bone—
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry....