#AmericanWriters
They shut me up in Prose— As when a little Girl They put me in the Closet— Because they liked me “still”— Still! Could themself have peeped…
There is another sky, Ever serene and fair, And there is another sunshine, Though it be darkness there; Never mind faded forests, Austin,
We like March, his shoes are purp… He is new and high; Makes he mud for dog and peddler, Makes he forest dry; Knows the adder’s tongue his comin…
63 If pain for peace prepares Lo, what “Augustan” years Our feet await! If springs from winter rise,
879 Each Second is the last Perhaps, recalls the Man Just measuring unconsciousness The Sea and Spar between.
1510 How happy is the little Stone That rambles in the Road alone, And doesn’t care about Careers And Exigencies never fears—
286 That after Horror — that ’twas us… That passed the mouldering Pier — Just as the Granite Crumb let go… Our Savior, by a Hair —
807 Expectation—is Contentment— Gain—Satiety— But Satiety—Conviction Of Necessity
38 By such and such an offering To Mr. So and So, The web of live woven— So martyrs albums show!
773 Deprived of other Banquet, I entertained Myself— At first—a scant nutrition— An insufficient Loaf—
235 The Court is far away— No Umpire—have I— My Sovereign is offended— To gain his grace—I’d die!
Sometimes with the Heart Seldom with the Soul Scarcer once with the Might Few - love at all.
The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,— The sweeping up the heart,
To flee from memory Had we the Wings Many would fly Inured to slower things Birds with surprise
I dwell in Possibility – A fairer House than Prose – More numerous of Windows – Superior – for Doors – Of Chambers as the Cedars –