#AmericanWriters
529 I’m sorry for the Dead—Today— It’s such congenial times Old Neighbors have at fences— It’s time o’ year for Hay.
595 Like Mighty Foot Lights’—burned… At Bases of the Trees’— The far Theatricals of Day Exhibiting’—to These’—
894 Of Consciousness, her awful Mate The Soul cannot be rid— As easy the secreting her Behind the Eyes of God.
993 We miss Her, not because We see— The Absence of an Eye— Except its Mind accompany Abridge Society
475 Doom is the House without the Doo… ’Tis entered from the Sun— And then the Ladder’s thrown away… Because Escape—is done—
51 I often passed the village When going home from school— And wondered what they did there— And why it was so still—
The Work of Her that went, The Toil of Fellows done - In Ovens green our Mother bakes, By Fires of the Sun.
496 As far from pity, as complaint— As cool to speech—as stone— As numb to Revelation As if my Trade were Bone—
209 With thee, in the Desert— With thee in the thirst— With thee in the Tamarind wood— Leopard breathes—at last!
We like March, his shoes are purp… He is new and high; Makes he mud for dog and peddler, Makes he forest dry; Knows the adder’s tongue his comin…
MINE by the right of the white e… Mine by the royal seal! Mine by the sign in the scarlet pr… Bars cannot conceal! Mine, here in vision and in veto!
113 Our share of night to bear— Our share of morning— Our blank in bliss to fill Our blank in scorning—
82 Whose cheek is this? What rosy face Has lost a blush today? I found her—"pleiad"—in the woods
552 An ignorance a Sunset Confer upon the Eye— Of Territory—Color— Circumference&mda sh;Decay—
879 Each Second is the last Perhaps, recalls the Man Just measuring unconsciousness The Sea and Spar between.