#AmericanWriters
132 I bring an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching Next to mine, And summon them to drink;
24 There is a morn by men unseen— Whose maids upon remoter green Keep their Seraphic May— And all day long, with dance and g…
218 Is it true, dear Sue? Are there two? I shouldn’t like to come For fear of joggling Him!
XCVI MY life closed twice before its c… It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me,
323 As if I asked a common Alms, And in my wondering hand A Stranger pressed a Kingdom, And I, bewildered, stand—
285 The Robin’s my Criterion for Tun… Because I grow—where Robins do— But, were I Cuckoo born— I’d swear by him—
LXXXII THERE’S a certain slant of ligh… On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes.
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?
338 I know that He exists. Somewhere—in Silence— He has hid his rare life From our gross eyes.
’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
466 ’Tis little I—could care for Pear… Who own the ample sea— Or Brooches—when the Emperor— With Rubies—pelteth me—
821 Away from Home are some and I— An Emigrant to be In a Metropolis of Homes Is easy, possibly—
To flee from memory Had we the Wings Many would fly Inured to slower things Birds with surprise
971 Robbed by Death—but that was easy… To the failing Eye I could hold the latest Glowing— Robbed by Liberty
913 And this of all my Hopes This, is the silent end Bountiful colored, my Morning ros… Early and sere, its end