#AmericanWriters
XLIII I LIKE to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step
681 Soil of Flint, if steady tilled— Will refund by Hand— Seed of Palm, by Libyan Sun Fructified in Sand—
470 I am alive—I guess— The Branches on my Hand Are full of Morning Glory— And at my finger’s end—
129 Cocoon above! Cocoon below! Stealthy Cocoon, why hide you so What all the world suspect? An hour, and gay on every tree
416 A Murmur in the Trees—to note— Not loud enough—for Wind— A Star—not far enough to seek— Nor near enough—to find—
904 Had I not This, or This, I said, Appealing to Myself, In moment of prosperity— Inadequate—were Life—
550 I cross till I am weary A Mountain—in my mind— More Mountains—then a Sea— More Seas—And then
Let me not mar that perfect Dream By an Auroral stain But so adjust my daily Night That it will come again. Not when we know, the Power accos…
225 Jesus! thy Crucifix Enable thee to guess The smaller size! Jesus! thy second face
My life closed twice before its cl… It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me So huge, so hopeless to conceive
113 Our share of night to bear— Our share of morning— Our blank in bliss to fill Our blank in scorning—
902 The first Day that I was a Life I recollect it—How still— That last Day that I was a Life I recollect it—as well—
Luck is not chance It’s Toil Fortune’s expensive smile Is earned The Father of the Mine
The Butterfly in honored Dust Assuredly will lie But none will pass the Catacomb So chastened as the Fly -
899 Herein a Blossom lies— A Sepulchre, between— Cross it, and overcome the Bee— Remain—'tis but a Rind.