#AmericanWriters
316 The Wind didn’t come from the Orc… Further than that— Nor stop to play with the Hay— Nor joggle a Hat—
XIX PAIN has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not.
99 New feet within my garden go— New fingers stir the sod— A Troubadour upon the Elm Betrays the solitude.
XCIX THERE is no frigate like a book To take us lands away, Nor any coursers like a page Of prancing poetry.
354 From Cocoon forth a Butterfly As Lady from her Door Emerged—a Summer Afternoon— Repairing Everywhere—
CXII I FELT a funeral in my brain, And mourners, to and fro, Kept treading, treading, till it s… That sense was breaking through.
960 As plan for Noon and plan for Nig… So differ Life and Death In positive Prospective— The Foot upon the Earth
656 The name—of it—is “Autumn”— The hue—of it—is Blood— An Artery—upon the Hill— A Vein—along the Road—
513 Like Flowers, that heard the news… But never deemed the dripping priz… Awaited their—low Brows— Or Bees—that thought the Summer’s…
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—
395 Reverse cannot befall That fine Prosperity Whose Sources are interior— As soon—Adversity
544 The Martyr Poets’—did not tell’— But wrought their Pang in syllabl… That when their mortal name be num… Their mortal fate’—encourage Some…
550 I cross till I am weary A Mountain—in my mind— More Mountains—then a Sea— More Seas—And then
The Grass so little has to do ' A Sphere of simple Green ' With only Butterflies to brood And Bees to entertain ' And stir all day to pretty Tunes
Wild Nights! Wild Nights! Were I with thee, Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile the winds