#AmericanWriters
This was a Poet —It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings — And Attar so immense From the familiar species
990 Not all die early, dying young— Maturity of Fate Is consummated equally In Ages, or a Night—
892 Who occupies this House? A Stranger I must judge Since No one know His Circumstan… ’Tis well the name and age
She sweeps with many-colored broom… And leaves the shreds behind; Oh, housewife in the evening west, Come back, and dust the pond! You dropped a purple ravelling in,
522 Had I presumed to hope— The loss had been to Me A Value—for the Greatness’ Sake— As Giants—gone away—
475 Doom is the House without the Doo… ’Tis entered from the Sun— And then the Ladder’s thrown away… Because Escape—is done—
814 One Day is there of the Series Termed Thanksgiving Day. Celebrated part at Table Part in Memory.
427 I'll clutch — and clutch — Next — One — Might be the golden… Could take it — Diamonds — Wait —
Nature rarer uses yellow Than another hue; Saves she all of that for sunsets,… Prodigal of blue, Spending scarlet like a woman,
942 Snow beneath whose chilly softness Some that never lay Make their first Repose this Wint… I admonish Thee
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…
883 The Poets light but Lamps— Themselves—go out— The Wicks they stimulate— If vital Light
The spry Arms of the Wind If I could crawl between I have an errand imminent To an adjoining Zone - I should not care to stop
975 The Mountain sat upon the Plain In his tremendous Chair— His observation omnifold, His inquest, everywhere—
153 Dust is the only Secret— Death, the only One You cannot find out all about In his “native town.”