#AmericanWriters
539 The Province of the Saved Should be the Art—To save— Through Skill obtained in Themsel… The Science of the Grave
350 They leave us with the Infinite. But He—is not a man— His fingers are the size of fists— His fists, the size of men—
I meant to find her when I came; Death had the same design; But the success was his, it seems, And the discomfit mine. I meant to tell her how I longed
178 I cautious, scanned my little life… I winnowed what would fade From what would last till Heads l… Should be a-dreaming laid.
XLIV THE show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to me My neighbor be.
Had we our senses But perhaps ’tis well they’re not… So intimate with Madness He’s liable with them Had we the eyes without our Head—
432 Do People moulder equally, They bury, in the Grave? I do believe a Species As positively live
These Fevered Days—to take them t… Where Waters cool around the moss… And shade is all that devastates t… Seems it sometimes this would be a…
Growth of Man—like Growth of Nat… Gravitates within— Atmosphere, and Sun endorse it— Bit it stir—alone— Each—its difficult Ideal
‘Faith’ is a fine invention When Gentlemen can see’— But Microscopes are prudent In an Emergency.
Judgment is justest When the Judged, His action laid away, Divested is of every Disk But his sincerity.
830 To this World she returned. But with a tinge of that— A Compound manner, As a Sod
243 I’ve known a Heaven, like a Tent— To wrap its shining Yards— Pluck up its stakes, and disappear… Without the sound of Boards
354 From Cocoon forth a Butterfly As Lady from her Door Emerged—a Summer Afternoon— Repairing Everywhere—
295 Unto like Story—Trouble has entic… How Kinsmen fell— Brothers and Sister—who preferred… And their young will