#AmericanWriters
114 Good night, because we must, How intricate the dust! I would go, to know! Oh incognito!
702 A first Mute Coming— In the Stranger’s House— A first fair Going— When the Bells rejoice—
530 You cannot put a Fire out— A Thing that can ignite Can go, itself, without a Fan— Upon the slowest Night—
A toad can die of light! Death is the common right Of toads and men,— Of earl and midge The privilege.
614 In falling Timbers buried— There breathed a Man— Outside—the spades—were plying— The Lungs—within—
You love the Lord—you cannot see— You write Him—every day— A little note—when you awake— And further in the Day. An Ample Letter—How you miss—
983 Ideals are the Fairly Oil With which we help the Wheel But when the Vital Axle turns The Eye rejects the Oil.
XXVII I’m Nobody! Who are you? Are you—Nobody—too? Then there’s a pair of us! Don’t tell! they’d advertise—you k…
144 She bore it till the simple veins Traced azure on her hand— Til pleading, round her quiet eyes The purple Crayons stand.
19 A sepal, petal, and a thorn Upon a common summer’s morn— A flask of Dew—A Bee or two— A Breeze—a caper in the trees—
415 Sunset at Night—is natural— But Sunset on the Dawn Reverses Nature—Master— So Midnight's—due—at Noon.
21 We lose—because we win— Gamblers—recollecting which Toss their dice again!
34 Garland for Queens, may be— Laurels—for rare degree Of soul or sword. Ah—but remembering me—
446 I showed her Heights she never sa… “Would’st Climb,” I said? She said—"Not so"— “With me—” I said—With me?
635 I think the longest Hour of all Is when the Cars have come— And we are waiting for the Coach— It seems as though the Time
