#AmericanWriters
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,
Longing is like the Seed That wrestles in the Ground, Believing if it intercede It shall at length be found. The Hour, and the Clime -
94 Angels, in the early morning May be seen the Dews among, Stooping—plucking—smiling&m da… Do the Buds to them belong?
13 Sleep is supposed to be By souls of sanity The shutting of the eye. Sleep is the station grand
200 I stole them from a Bee— Because—Thee— Sweet plea— He pardoned me!
143 For every Bird a Nest— Wherefore in timid quest Some little Wren goes seeking rou… Wherefore when boughs are free—
759 He fought like those Who’ve nough… Bestowed Himself to Balls As One who for a further Life Had not a further Use—
485 To make One’s Toilette—after Dea… Has made the Toilette cool Of only Taste we cared to please Is difficult, and still—
789 On a Columnar Self— How ample to rely In Tumult—or Extremity— How good the Certainty
How slow the Wind - how slow the sea - how late their Fathers be!
212 Least Rivers—docile to some sea. My Caspian—thee.
710 The Sunrise runs for Both— The East—Her Purple Troth Keeps with the Hill— The Noon unwinds Her Blue
645 Bereavement in their death to feel Whom We have never seen— A Vital Kinsmanship import Our Soul and theirs—between—
980 Purple—is fashionable twice— This season of the year, And when a soul perceives itself To be an Emperor.
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—