#AmericanWriters
Publication—is the Auction Of the Mind of Man— Poverty—be justifying For so foul a thing Possibly—but We—would rather
The Hills in Purple syllables The Day’s Adventures tell To little Groups of Continents Just going Home from School.
256 If I’m lost—now That I was found— Shall still my transport be— That once—on me—those Jasper Gate…
Not in this world to see his face Sounds long, until I read the pla… Where this is said to be But just the primer to a life Unopened, rare, upon the shelf,
9 Through lane it lay—through brambl… Through clearing and through wood— Banditti often passed us Upon the lonely road.
48 Once more, my now bewildered Dove Bestirs her puzzled wings Once more her mistress, on the dee… Her troubled question flings—
221 It can’t be “Summer”! That—got through! It’s early—yet—for “Spring”! There’s that long town of White—t…
952 A Man may make a Remark— In itself—a quiet thing That may furnish the Fuse unto a… In dormant nature—lain—
734 If He were living—dare I ask— And how if He be dead— And so around the Words I went— Of meeting them—afraid—
847 Finite’—to fail, but infinite to… For the one ship that struts the s… Many’s the gallant’—overwhelmed C… Nodding in Navies nevermore’—
“Morning”—means “Milking”—to the… Dawn—to the Teneriffe— Dice—to the Maid— Morning means just Risk—to the Lo… Just revelation—to the Beloved—
170 Portraits are to daily faces As an Evening West, To a fine, pedantic sunshine— In a satin Vest!
“I want”—it pleaded—All its life— I want—was chief it said When Skill entreated it—the last— And when so newly dead— I could not deem it late—to hear
1763 Fame is a bee. It has a song— It has a sting— Ah, too, it has a wing.
525 I think the Hemlock likes to stan… Upon a Marge of Snow— It suits his own Austerity— And satisfies an awe