#AmericanWriters
761 From Blank to Blank— A Threadless Way I pushed Mechanic feet— To stop—or perish—or advance—
614 In falling Timbers buried— There breathed a Man— Outside—the spades—were plying— The Lungs—within—
We play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool. The shapes, though, were similar,
595 Like Mighty Foot Lights—burned t… At Bases of the Trees— The far Theatricals of Day Exhibiting—to These—
122 A something in a summer’s Day As slow her flambeaux burn away Which solemnizes me. A something in a summer’s noon—
III SOUL, wilt thou toss again? By just such a hazard Hundreds have lost, indeed, But tens have won an all.
724 It’s easy to invent a Life— God does it—every Day— Creation—but the Gambol Of His Authority—
52 Whether my bark went down at sea— Whether she met with gales— Whether to isles enchanted She bent her docile sails—
831 Dying! To be afraid of thee One must to thine Artillery Have left exposed a Friend— Than thine old Arrow is a Shot
315 He fumbles at your Soul As Players at the Keys Before they drop full Music on— He stuns you by degrees—
541 Some such Butterfly be seen On Brazilian Pampas— Just at noon—no later—Sweet— Then—the License closes—
A Coffin’—is a small Domain, Yet able to contain A Citizen of Paradise In it diminished Plane. A Grave’—is a restricted Breadth’…
994 Partake as doth the Bee, Abstemiously. The Rose is an Estate— In Sicily.
Of all the souls that stand create I have elected one. When sense from spirit files away, And subterfuge is done; When that which is and that which…
The Hills erect their Purple Hea… The Rivers lean to see Yet Man has not of all the Throng A Curiosity.
