#AmericanWriters
334 All the letters I can write Are not fair as this— Syllables of Velvet— Sentences of Plush,
467 We do not play on Graves— Because there isn’t Room— Besides—it isn’t even—it slants And People come—
To lose thee, sweeter than to gain All other hearts I knew. Tis true the drought is destitute But, then, I had the dew! The Caspian has its realms of san…
The pedigree of honey Does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him Is aristocracy.
788 Joy to have merited the Pain— To merit the Release— Joy to have perished every step— To Compass Paradise—
599 There is a pain’—so utter’— It swallows substance up’— Then covers the Abyss with Trance… So Memory can step
XXIII A bird came down the walk: He did not know I saw; He bit an angle-worm in halves And ate the fellow, raw.
965 Denial—is the only fact Perceived by the Denied— Whose Will—a numb significance— The Day the Heaven died—
358 If any sink, assure that this, now… Failed like Themselves—and consci… Grew by the Fact, and not the Und… How Weakness passed—or Force—aros…
You said that I “was Great”'—one… Then “Great” it be’—if that pleas… Or Small’—or any size at all’— Nay’—I’m the size suit Thee’— Tall’—like the Stag’—would that?
86 South Winds jostle them— Bumblebees come— Hover—hesitate— Dri nk, and are gone—
298 Alone, I cannot be— For Hosts—do visit me— Recordless Company— Who baffle Key—
16 I would distil a cup, And bear to all my friends, Drinking to her no more astir, By beck, or burn, or moor!
’Twas Crisis—All the length had p… That dull—benumbing time There is in Fever or Event— And now the Chance had come— The instant holding in its claw
146 On such a night, or such a night, Would anybody care If such a little figure Slipped quiet from its chair—