#AmericanWriters
698 Life—is what we make of it— Death—we do not know— Christ’s acquaintance with Him Justify Him—though—
Revolution is the Pod Systems rattle from When the Winds of Will are stirre… Excellent is Bloom But except its Russet Base
I have no life but this, To lead it here; Nor any death, but lest Dispelled from there; Nor tie to earths to come,
369 She lay as if at play Her life had leaped away— Intending to return— But not so soon—
This is the land the sunset washes… These are the banks of the Yellow… Where it rose, or whither it rushe… These are the western mystery! Night after night her purple traff…
570 I could die’—to know’— ’Tis a trifling knowledge’— News-Boys salute the Door’— Carts’—joggle by’—
1510 How happy is the little Stone That rambles in the Road alone, And doesn’t care about Careers And Exigencies never fears—
634 You’ll know Her—by Her Foot— The smallest Gamboge Hand With Fingers—where the Toes shoul… Would more affront the Sand—
The cricket sang, And set the sun, And workmen finished, one by one, Their seam the day upon. The low grass loaded with the dew,
403 The Winters are so short— I’m hardly justified In sending all the Birds away— And moving into Pod—
LV I envy seas whereon he rides, I envy spokes of wheels Of chariots that him convey, I envy speechless hills
285 The Robin’s my Criterion for Tun… Because I grow—where Robins do— But, were I Cuckoo born— I’d swear by him—
625 ’Twas a long Parting—but the time For Interview—had Come— Before the Judgment Seat of God— The last—and second time
923 How the Waters closed above Him We shall never know— How He stretched His Anguish to… That—is covered too—
They shut me up in Prose— As when a little Girl They put me in the Closet— Because they liked me “still”— Still! Could themself have peeped…