#AmericanWriters
Drowning is not so pitiful As the attempt to rise. Three times, 't is said, a sinking… Comes up to face the skies, And then declines forever
197 Morning—is the place for Dew— Corn—is made at Noon— After dinner light—for flowers— Dukes—for Setting Sun!
335 ’Tis not that Dying hurts us so— ’Tis Living—hurts us more— But Dying—is a different way— A Kind behind the Door—
The Face we choose to miss - Be it but for a Day As absent as a Hundred Years, When it has rode away.
777 The Loneliness One dare not sound… And would as soon surmise As in its Grave go plumbing To ascertain the size—
415 Sunset at Night—is natural— But Sunset on the Dawn Reverses Nature—Master— So Midnight's—due—at Noon.
384 No Rack can torture me— My Soul—at Liberty— Behind this mortal Bone There knits a bolder One—
The Clover’s simple Fame Remembered of the Cow - Is better than enameled Realms Of notability. Renown perceives itself
SUCCESS is counted sweetest By those who ne’er succeed. To comprehend a nectar Requires sorest need. Not one of all the purple host
685 Not “Revelation”—'tis—that waits, But our unfurnished eyes—
XV I know some lonely houses off the… A robber ’d like the look of,— Wooden barred, And windows hanging low,
The Sun kept setting—setting—stil… No Hue of Afternoon— Upon the Village I perceived From House to House ’twas Noon— The Dusk kept dropping—dropping—s…
11 I never told the buried gold Upon the hill—that lies— I saw the sun—his plunder done Crouch low to guard his prize.
733 The Spirit is the Conscious Ear. We actually Hear When We inspect—that’s audible— That is admitted—Here—
614 In falling Timbers buried— There breathed a Man— Outside—the spades—were plying— The Lungs—within—