#AmericanWriters
344 ’Twas the old—road—through pain— That unfrequented—One— With many a turn—and thorn— That stops—at Heaven—
721 Behind Me’—dips Eternity’— Before Me’—Immortality’— Myself’—the Term between’— Death but the Drift of Eastern G…
591 To interrupt His Yellow Plan The Sun does not allow Caprices of the Atmosphere— And even when the Snow
The heart asks pleasure first And then, excuse from pain– And then, those little anodynes That deaden suffering; And then, to go to sleep;
399 A House upon the Height— That Wagon never reached— No Dead, were ever carried down— No Peddler’s Cart—approached—
464 The power to be true to You, Until upon my face The Judgment push his Picture— Presumptuous of Your Place—
310 Give little Anguish— Lives will fret— Give Avalanches— And they’ll slant—
885 Our little Kinsmen’—after Rain In plenty may be seen, A Pink and Pulpy multitude The tepid Ground upon.
474 They put Us far apart— As separate as Sea And Her unsown Peninsula— We signified “These see”—
423 The Months have ends—the Years—a… No Power can untie To stretch a little further A Skein of Misery—
942 Snow beneath whose chilly softness Some that never lay Make their first Repose this Wint… I admonish Thee
If Nature smiles - the Mother mu… I’m sure, at many a whim Of Her eccentric Family - Is She so much to blame?
348 I would not paint — a picture — I'd rather be the One It's bright impossibility To dwell — delicious — on —
679 Conscious am I in my Chamber, Of a shapeless friend— He doth not attest by Posture— Nor Confirm—by Word—
The show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to me My neighbor be. Fair play—