#AmericanWriters
345 Funny’—to be a Century’— And see the People’—going by’— I’—should die of the Oddity’— But then’—I’m not so staid’—as He…
717 The Beggar Lad—dies early— It’s Somewhat in the Cold— And Somewhat in the Trudging feet… And haply, in the World—
Publication—is the Auction Of the Mind of Man— Poverty—be justifying For so foul a thing Possibly—but We—would rather
Apparently with no surprise, To any happy flower, The frost beheads it at its play, In accidental power. The blond assassin passes on.
The spider holds a Silver Ball In unperceived Hands— And dancing softly to Himself His Yarn of Pearl—unwinds— He plies from Nought to Nought—
A thought went up my mind to-day That I have had before, But did not finish,—some way back, I could not fix the year, Nor where it went, nor why it came
For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ectasty. For each beloved hour
Drowning is not so pitiful As the attempt to rise. Three times, 't is said, a sinking… Comes up to face the skies, And then declines forever
XXXVI I NEVER hear the word “escape” Without a quicker blood, A sudden expectation, A flying attitude.
After a hundred years Nobody knows the place,— Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace. Weeds triumphant ranged,
“Sic transit gloria mundi,” “How doth the busy bee,” “Dum vivimus vivamus,” I stay mine enemy! Oh “veni, vidi, vici!”
772 The hallowing of Pain Like hallowing of Heaven, Obtains at a corporeal cost— The Summit is not given
Part One: Life LII VICTORY comes late, And is held low to freezing lips Too rapt with frost
547 I’ve seen a Dying Eye Run round and round a Room— In search of Something—as it seem… Then Cloudier become—
25 She slept beneath a tree— Remembered but by me. I touched her Cradle mute— She recognized the foot—