#AmericanWriters
323 As if I asked a common Alms, And in my wondering hand A Stranger pressed a Kingdom, And I, bewildered, stand—
68 Ambition cannot find him. Affection doesn’t know How many leagues of nowhere Lie between them now.
We play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool. The shapes, though, were similar,
719 A South Wind—has a pathos Of individual Voice— As One detect on Landings An Emigrant’s address.
134 Perhaps you’d like to buy a flower… But I could never sell— If you would like to borrow, Until the Daffodil
239 “Heaven”—is what I cannot reach! The Apple on the Tree— Provided it do hopeless—hang— That—"He aven" is—to Me!
899 Herein a Blossom lies— A Sepulchre, between— Cross it, and overcome the Bee— Remain—'tis but a Rind.
A shady friend for torrid days Is easier to find Than one of higher temperature For frigid hour of mind. The vane a little to the east
367 Over and over, like a Tune— The Recollection plays— Drums off the Phantom Battlements Cornets of Paradise—
206 The Flower must not blame the Bee… That seeketh his felicity Too often at her door— But teach the Footman from Vevay—
801 I play at Riches’—to appease The Clamoring for Gold’— It kept me from a Thief, I think, For often, overbold
777 The Loneliness One dare not sound… And would as soon surmise As in its Grave go plumbing To ascertain the size—
439 Undue Significance a starving man… To Food— Far off—He sighs—and therefore—Ho… And therefore—Good—
A great Hope fell You heard no noise The Ruin was within Oh cunning wreck that told no tale And let no Witness in
480 “Why do I love” You, Sir? Because— The Wind does not require the Gra… To answer—Wherefore when He pass