#AmericanWriters
281 ’Tis so appalling—it exhilarates— So over Horror, it half Captivate… The Soul stares after it, secure— A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more…
48 Once more, my now bewildered Dove Bestirs her puzzled wings Once more her mistress, on the dee… Her troubled question flings—
513 Like Flowers, that heard the news… But never deemed the dripping priz… Awaited their—low Brows— Or Bees—that thought the Summer’s…
IF I can stop one heart from brea… I shall not live in vain; If I can ease one life the aching… Or cool one pain, Or help one fainting robin
662 Embarrassment of one another And God Is Revelation’s limit, Aloud
The inundation of the Spring Enlarges every soul - It sweeps the tenement away But leaves the Water whole - In which the soul at first estrang…
Exhilaration is the Breeze That lifts us from the Ground And leaves us in another place Whose statement is not found - Returns us not, but after time
’T IS so much joy! ’T is so much… If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I Have ventured all upon a throw; Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so
777 The Loneliness One dare not sound… And would as soon surmise As in its Grave go plumbing To ascertain the size—
335 ’Tis not that Dying hurts us so— ’Tis Living—hurts us more— But Dying—is a different way— A Kind behind the Door—
75 She died at play, Gambolled away Her lease of spotted hours, Then sank as gaily as a Turn
430 It would never be Common — more —… Difference — had begun — Many a bitterness — had been — But that old sort — was done —
For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ectasty. For each beloved hour
A little road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee, Or cart of butterfly. If town it have, beyond itself,
530 You cannot put a Fire out— A Thing that can ignite Can go, itself, without a Fan— Upon the slowest Night—