#AmericanWriters
370 Heaven is so far of the Mind That were the Mind dissolved— The Site—of it—by Architect Could not again be proved—
926 Patience’—has a quiet Outer’— Patience’—Look within’— Is an Insect’s futile forces Infinites’—between’—
784 Bereaved of all, I went abroad— No less bereaved was I Upon a New Peninsula— The Grave preceded me—
A still – Volcano – Life – That flickered in the night – When it was dark enough to do Without erasing sight – A quiet – Earthquake Style –
394 ’Twas Love’—not me’— Oh punish’—pray’— The Real one died for Thee’— Just Him’—not me’—
357 God is a distant—stately Lover— Woos, as He states us—by His Son… Verily, a Vicarious Courtship— “Miles”, and “Priscilla”, were su…
LXI EACH life converges to some cent… Expressed or still; Exists in every human nature A goal,
XXXII HOPE is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the wor… And never stops at all,
I had not minded—Walls— Were Universe—one Rock— And far I heard his silver Call The other side the Block— I’d tunnel—till my Groove
957 As One does Sickness over In convalescent Mind, His scrutiny of Chances By blessed Health obscured—
907 Till Death’—is narrow Loving’— The scantest Heart extant Will hold you till your privilege Of Finiteness’—be spent’—
218 Is it true, dear Sue? Are there two? I shouldn’t like to come For fear of joggling Him!
So much of Heaven has gone from E… That there must be a Heaven If only to enclose the Saints To Affidavit given. The Missionary to the Mole
560 It knew no lapse, nor Diminuation… But large—serene— Burned on—until through Dissoluti… It failed from Men—
338 I know that He exists. Somewhere—in Silence— He has hid his rare life From our gross eyes.