#AmericanWriters
XI MUCH madness is divinest sense To a discerning eye; Much sense the starkest madness. ’T is the majority
402 I pay—in Satin Cash— You did not state—your price— A Petal, for a Paragraph It near as I can guess—
268 Me, change! Me, alter! Then I will, when on the Everlast… A Smaller Purple grows— At sunset, or a lesser glow
353 A happy lip—breaks sudden— It doesn’t state you how It contemplated—smiling— Just consummated—now—
455 Triumph—may be of several kinds— There’s Triumph in the Room When that Old Imperator—Death— By Faith
I taste a liquor never brewed, From tankards scooped in pearl; Not all the vats upon the Rhine Yield such an alcohol! Inebriate of air am I,
XXVIII I BRING an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching, next to min… And summon them to drink. Crackling with fever, they essay;
321 Of all the Sounds despatched abro… There’s not a Charge to me Like that old measure in the Boug… That phraseless Melody—
772 The hallowing of Pain Like hallowing of Heaven, Obtains at a corporeal cost— The Summit is not given
263 Is all that pins the Soul That stands for Deity, to Mine, Upon my side the Veil— Once witnessed of the Gauze—
843 I made slow Riches but my Gain Was steady as the Sun And every Night, it numbered more Than the preceding One
Not “Revelation”—'tis—that waits, But our unfurnished eyes—
552 An ignorance a Sunset Confer upon the Eye— Of Territory—Color— Circumference&mda sh;Decay—
678 Wolfe demanded during dying “Which obtain the Day”? “General, the British”—"Easy” Answered Wolfe “to die”
182 If I shouldn’t be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb.