#AmericanWriters
600 It troubled me as once I was— For I was once a Child— Concluding how an Atom—fell— And yet the Heavens—held—
448 This was a Poet—It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings— And Attar so immense
958 We met as Sparks—Diverging Flint… Sent various—scattered ways— We parted as the Central Flint Were cloven with an Adze—
Dying at my music! Bubble! Bubble! Hold me till the Octave’s run! Quick! Burst the Windows! Ritardando!
There is another Loneliness That many die without - Not want of friend occasions it Or circumstances of Lot But nature, sometimes, sometimes t…
The Black Berry—wears a Thorn in… But no Man heard Him cry— He offers His Berry, just the sam… To Partridge—and to Boy— He sometimes holds upon the Fence…
The grave my little cottage is, Where 'Keeping house’ for thee I make my parlor orderly And lay the marble tea. For two divided, briefly,
81 We should not mind so small a flow… Except it quiet bring Our little garden that we lost Back to the Lawn again.
637 The Child’s faith is new— Whole—like His Principle— Wide—like the Sunrise On fresh Eyes—
XXXIV WHO never lost, are unprepared A coronet to find; Who never thirsted, flagons And cooling tamarind.
316 The Wind didn’t come from the Orc… Further than that— Nor stop to play with the Hay— Nor joggle a Hat—
After a hundred years Nobody knows the place,— Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace. Weeds triumphant ranged,
XXX WE play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool.
His Heart was darker than the sta… For that there is a morn But in this black Receptacle Can be no Bode of Dawn
I never saw a moor; I never saw the sea, Yet know I how the heather looks And what a billow be. I never spoke with God,