#AmericanWriters
563 I could not prove the Years had f… Yet confident they run Am I, from symptoms that are past And Series that are done—
788 Joy to have merited the Pain— To merit the Release— Joy to have perished every step— To Compass Paradise—
843 I made slow Riches but my Gain Was steady as the Sun And every Night, it numbered more Than the preceding One
262 The lonesome for they know not Wh… The Eastern Exiles—be— Who strayed beyond the Amber line Some madder Holiday—
I like to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step Around a pile of mountains,
Not any sunny tone From any fervent zone Find entrance there - Better a grave of Balm Toward human nature’s home -
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…
769 One and One—are One— Two—be finished using— Well enough for schools— But for minor Choosing—
“Sic transit gloria mundi,” “How doth the busy bee,” “Dum vivimus vivamus,” I stay mine enemy! Oh “veni, vidi, vici!”
75 She died at play, Gambolled away Her lease of spotted hours, Then sank as gaily as a Turn
After a hundred years Nobody knows the place,— Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace. Weeds triumphant ranged,
636 The Way I read a Letter’s—this— ’Tis first—I lock the Door— And push it with my fingers—next— For transport it be sure—
312 Her—last Poems— Poets ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled Other,
No rack can torture me, My soul’s at liberty Behind this mortal bone There knits a bolder one You cannot prick with saw,
A Coffin—is a small Domain, Yet able to contain A Citizen of Paradise In it diminished Plane. A Grave—is a restricted Breadth—