#AmericanWriters
164 Mama never forgets her birds, Though in another tree— She looks down just as often And just as tenderly
XCIX THERE is no frigate like a book To take us lands away, Nor any coursers like a page Of prancing poetry.
879 Each Second is the last Perhaps, recalls the Man Just measuring unconsciousness The Sea and Spar between.
A toad can die of light! Death is the common right Of toads and men,— Of earl and midge The privilege.
715 The World—feels Dusty When We stop to Die— We want the Dew—then— Honors—taste dry—
894 Of Consciousness, her awful Mate The Soul cannot be rid— As easy the secreting her Behind the Eyes of God.
772 The hallowing of Pain Like hallowing of Heaven, Obtains at a corporeal cost— The Summit is not given
140 An altered look about the hills— A Tyrian light the village fills— A wider sunrise in the morn— A deeper twilight on the lawn—
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,
A Wind that rose Though not a Leaf In any Forest stirred But with itself did cold engage Beyond the Realm of Bird -
LX A SHADY friend for torrid days Is easier to find Than one of higher temperature For frigid hour of mind.
604 Unto my Books’—so good to turn’— Far ends of tired Days’— It half endears the Abstinence’— And Pain’—is missed’—in Praise’—
137 Flowers—Well—if anybody Can the ecstasy define— Half a transport—half a trouble— With which flowers humble men:
523 Sweet—You forgot—but I remembered Every time—for Two— So that the Sum be never hindered Through Decay of You—
890 From Us She wandered now a Year, Her tarrying, unknown, If Wilderness prevent her feet Or that Ethereal Zone