#AmericanWriters
The Notice that is called the Spr… Is but a month from here - Put up my Heart thy Hoary work And take a Rosy Chair. Not any House the Flowers keep -
66 So from the mould Scarlet and Gold Many a Bulb will rise— Hidden away, cunningly, From saga…
166 I met a King this afternoon! He had not on a Crown indeed, A little Palmleaf Hat was all, And he was barefoot, I’m afraid!
452 The Malay—took the Pearl— Not—I—the Earl— I—feared the Sea—too much Unsanctified—to touch—
789 On a Columnar Self— How ample to rely In Tumult—or Extremity— How good the Certainty
161 A feather from the Whippoorwill That everlasting—sings! Whose galleries—are Sunrise— Whose Opera—the Springs—
746 Never for Society He shall seek in vain— Who His own acquaintance Cultivate—Of Men
160 Just lost, when I was saved! Just felt the world go by! Just girt me for the onset with E… When breath blew back,
Warm in her Hand these accents li… While faithful and afar The Grace so awkward for her sake Its fond subjection wear -
417 Is it dead—Find it— Out of sound—Out of sight— “Happy”? Which is wiser— You, or the Wind?
962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—
608 Afraid! Of whom am I afraid? Not Death—for who is He? The Porter of my Father’s Lodge As much abasheth me!
92 My friend must be a Bird’— Because it flies! Mortal, my friend must be, Because it dies!
I went to heaven,— ‘T was a small town, Lit with a ruby, Lathed with down. Stiller than the fields
135 Water, is taught by thirst. Land—by the Oceans passed. Transport—by throe— Peace—by its battles told—