#AmericanWriters
810 Her Grace is all she has— And that, so least displays— One Art to recognize, must be, Another Art, to praise.
673 The Love a Life can show Below Is but a filament, I know, Of that diviner thing That faints upon the face of Noon…
381 A Secret told— Ceases to be a Secret—then— A Secret—kept— That—can appal but One—
763 He told a homely tale And spotted it with tears— Upon his infant face was set The Cicatrice of years—
306 The Soul’s Superior instants Occur to Her—alone— When friend—and Earth’s occasion Have infinite withdrawn—
735 Upon Concluded Lives There’s nothing cooler falls— Than Life’s sweet Calculations— The mixing Bells and Palls—
LXVI WHEN I hoped I feared, Since I hoped I dared; Everywhere alone As a church remain;
The cricket sang, And set the sun, And workmen finished, one by one, Their seam the day upon. The low grass loaded with the dew,
667 Bloom upon the Mountain’—stated’— Blameless of a Name’— Efflorescence of a Sunset’— Reproduced’—the same’—
462 Why make it doubt — it hurts it so… So sick — to guess — So strong — to know — So brave — upon its little Bed
349 I had the Glory—that will do— An Honor, Thought can turn her to When lesser Fames invite— With one long “Nay”—
32 When Roses cease to bloom, Sir, And Violets are done— When Bumblebees in solemn flight Have passed beyond the Sun—
1763 Fame is a bee. It has a song— It has a sting— Ah, too, it has a wing.
707 The Grace—Myself—might not obtain… Confer upon My flower— Refracted but a Countenance— For I—inhabit Her—
773 Deprived of other Banquet, I entertained Myself— At first—a scant nutrition— An insufficient Loaf—